


Hunt for a Healing Halo

by Ahaviel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Book Publishing, Brief mention of mild bondage, Contract Disputes, Conventions, Fantasy Writers, First Time, Grey-Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Implied Referenced Drug Use (past), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kid Gabriel (Supernatural), Last chapter (20) is detailed notes and trivia and canon references, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Massage, Mentions of living in hiding from family members, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD (past), Threats of lawsuits, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Writer Castiel, Writer Dean Winchester, minor character death (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 22:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11473023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahaviel/pseuds/Ahaviel
Summary: Dean Winchester is at the top of his career, the bestselling author of the Beast Hunters series of urban fantasy novels, represented by the shrewdest literary agent in the business, and enjoying nationwide fame, if not fortune. At a convention for fantasy authors and readers, he meets fellow author CJ Novak, the self-published creator of the popular Angel Warriors series, who lives life on his own terms and scorns all of the rules about writing and publishing that Dean holds dear. Their meeting has Dean questioning everything he thought he knew about himself. Did he effectively sell his soul to get where he is? What does it mean to truly be successful? And where does love—true passion that Dean hasn’t felt in years—fit into the equation?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _A/N: This is my first bang ever, and my first time working with an artist for my own work. I want to give a huge shout-out to[impalartsociopath](http://impalartsociopath.tumblr.com/) who did the amazing art for this fic. He was wonderful to work with, and I'd like to think we've come away friends._
> 
> _I’d like to also thank the mods for the[Destiel Big Bang](http://deancastielbigbang.tumblr.com/), for which this fic was written._
> 
> _And many thanks to my two beta readers, neither of whom are in the fandom, but both of whom are long used to reading my various works in progress._
> 
> _The last chapter is not a chapter of the story, but rather an explanation for how this story came to be, how much of it is based on truth, and an annotated list of all the canon references and trivia I managed to weave in throughout._
> 
> _You can find me on[Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/ahaviel_selah) and [Tumblr](http://ahaviel-selah.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
>  _You can find the artist[here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BehindTheCellarDoor) and also on [Tumblr](http://impalartsociopath.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> _This is a work of fanfiction. Characters are the intellectual property of the copyright holders of Supernatural produced by Kripke Enterprises and Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc. and are used under the fair use exemption as a non-commercial derivative work. Original character names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended._

 

It was only ten in the morning on the first day of the Fantasy Authors and Writers of North America annual convention for authors and fans to meet each other—dubbed FAWNcon—and the hotel bar was already crowded. Dean Winchester slipped out of the elevator with a polite smile to the con attendees, then managed to find a single open stool at the far end of the bar and signal the bartender.

“Jameson’s, neat,” he said, using his voice for the first time that morning. He’d flown in the previous afternoon, settled into his room, and decided to order room service for breakfast. Chances were good his publisher would pay at least some of his expenses for the trip, and the rest would be a tax write-off. He had his first panel at eleven—all urban fantasy authors—and with his lifelong shyness, he was going to need a drink or two before he could put his successful-author mask on.

The bartender returned with his whiskey and the bill and immediately left to take another order. A group of half a dozen people next to Dean moved away, laughing raucously, and Dean downed his shot, the burn waking him up better than the bitter coffee from room service. He motioned the bartender for a second shot and tried to get into the proper headspace for the day’s events.

After the eleven o’clock panel, he had to attend a luncheon sponsored by his publisher for all their authors, then he had another panel at three on paths to publication, followed by a book-signing, and then his agent had said he was expected for drinks and dinner with the other authors his agent represented. Knowing his agent, there would be a lot of high-priced alcohol, and then they’d find out it was Dutch treat.

Dean nursed his second drink as someone slid onto the stool next to him and ordered a black coffee.

“Isn’t it a bit early for whiskey?” the stranger asked in what Dean assumed was his morning voice.

Dean shrugged at his glass and took another sip. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He chanced a look at the other man as the coffee was served. Long, graceful fingers wrapped around the mug, bringing it up to a face framed by an unruly mop of dark brown hair, a hint of stubble over his strong jawline, and laugh lines. Before Dean could think to turn back to his drink, the stranger looked at him with eyes so blue and deep, Dean had momentary vertigo.

Those long fingers extended themselves out to him in a handshake. “I’m Cas,” the stranger said with a hint of a smile.

Blinking himself back into rational thinking, Dean returned the handshake. “Dean.”

“I know.” Cas gave him a lopsided grin. The guy was dressed casually in a linen sport coat over a graphic t-shirt and worn jeans. “I’m a big fan of your Beast Hunters series. The one with the leviathan, _Sea Hunt_ , was so much fun.”

“Thanks,” Dean said, feeling himself blush. Two dozen books out, and he still had a hard time with compliments. But the solution, he’d learned, was easy: redirect. Fans loved to talk. “You here as a fan?”

“Oh, I write a little too. It’s my first time at a con, though.”

“Yeah?” Dean could feel the alcohol dulling his shyness and buoying his confidence. “What do you think so far?”

“The energy is…” Cas seemed to be searching for the right word. “Invigorating. My faith in the future of reading and books is restored. At least until I go home.”

Dean realized that the guy’s gravelly voice was natural and not an effect of not having used it much this morning. “I hear you. Where’s home?”

“Washington State for the moment. I’m crashing on my brother’s couch until I figure out where I want to go next. How about you?”

Dean knew the question shouldn’t bother him, but it did. Famous authors were supposed to live in New York City or some charming cottage in Vermont, not a seven-hundred-fifty-square-foot dive in Nowheresville, Kansas. But beggars can’t be choosers when they’re still paying off their brother’s law school student loans. “Oh, you know,” he hedged. “Here and there. I travel a lot when I’m not writing.”

Cas sipped his coffee and ran the tip of his pink tongue over full lips. “What’s on your itinerary for the day?”

“My what?” Dean realized he was staring at the guy’s mouth and returned to his eyes. That wasn’t much better, though. Either the guy—Cas, he reminded himself—was flirting with him or had no sense of personal boundaries as he leaned closer into Dean’s space.

“Your schedule, Dean. What’s on your schedule for today?”

“Oh. Um…I’ve got a panel at eleven.”

“Great. So do I. Which one are you on?”

Dean took another sip of his whiskey, trying to clear his head. Maybe he should switch to coffee. “Urban fantasy.”

“I was already planning to attend that one.” Cas gave him a wink as he slid off his stool and fished some cash out of his pocket, setting it under the mug. “I’ll see you in there.”

 

Dean entered the ballroom where the panel _Magic in the Real World: Urban Fantasy_ was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, just as the moderator had asked. Looking around, he realized he was the first of the panelists to arrive.

“Dean?” A woman in her thirties with shoulder-length blond hair and dressed in a simple suit held out her hand in greeting. “I’m Hester. I’m your moderator for this panel. It’s lovely to meet you in person.”

“Sure,” Dean said, shaking her hand. “Thanks for the heads-up on some of your questions.”

“Yes, about that. I’ll be asking everyone the questions that I emailed to you, but I’ve come up with some other questions for each of you. I’ve read at least one book by everyone on the panel, and wanted to throw in a few questions that will keep you guessing.”

“I guess I won’t sleep through it, then,” Dean joked.

“Right.” Hester’s expression was somewhere between confused and irritated. “So, pick any chair you want, except the far left. That one’s mine. I’ll get the name cards set out, and the room monitor is coming with water bottles for everyone. The mics are already on, but we won’t start recording the panel until we actually start.”

The room was set up theater-style, with rows of chairs facing the front, aisles down each side and in the middle. At the front of the room was a raised dais on which sat a long, cloth-draped table adorned with six microphones and backed by six chairs. Dean chose the middle seat of the five reserved for authors. His personal inclination would have been to take the far right, giving himself a little extra space on one side. But he knew if his agent or editor ever found out, he’d never hear the end of it, and he wasn’t interested in being browbeaten.

 

“You’ve reached bestseller status, Dean,” his editor, Bela, had said a few short years ago. “You need to act the part. No more of this aw-shucks, down-home act.”

“It’s not an act,” Dean argued over the phone. “That’s just me.”

“PRHB is not promoting ‘just you,’” Bela snapped in return from her office in Manhattan. “We’re promoting Dean Winchester, bestselling fantasy author. You’re not just a person anymore, Dean. You’re a brand. You need to be front and center, smiling while you sign books, chat up the fans, the whole nine yards. I want great photos to use for publicity. And I need to preapprove all your social media posts from now on.”

 

The hollow thumping of footsteps jarred him from the memory and he looked up to see two young women climbing the few steps to the dais.

“Hi, I’m Tessa,” said the first, a brunette who barely looked out of her teens.

“Charlie,” said the second, a redhead who immediately bounded over to Dean, causing the dais floor to wobble. “Selfie time!” she announced. “Tessa, get in here.” They both crowded into Dean’s space, one on either side, while Charlie quickly snapped a photo, tapped on her phone’s screen a few times, and then grinned victoriously.

The both sat on either side of Dean, Charlie on the right, far too close for his comfort. “Uh…I’m Dean,” he said, half-raising his hand.

“I can’t believe I get to be on a panel with you!” Charlie squealed. “I’ve read all your books. You do pop culture references better than any author I know. Have you met Jim Butcher? I am seriously bummed that he had to cancel coming this year. But you’re here, so that makes it better. This is going to be a rock star panel. Being here with two of the greats? Heaven!” She did a little dance in her chair, causing the floor to bounce again.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your work,” Dean said. “Either of you. I apologize. I try to keep up.”

“You wouldn’t know mine,” Tessa said. “My first book is coming out in a month. In fact, I think we’re represented by the same agency.”

“JLC?” Dean asked.

“Yep. I was super lucky that Julian started accepting new clients again. He started that agency back in the late 70s, then brought Luke on in the mid-80s, and the new guy about ten years ago.”

“Yeah, I’m with the new guy.”

“I hear he’s demanding,” Tessa said.

Dean shrugged. “He gets the job done.” He turned to Charlie. “What about you?”

“You probably haven’t read my stuff either,” Charlie said with a wink. “Lesbian urban tech fantasy. My protagonist is a boring coder by day, hacker by night, until she gets recruited by the FBI to work undercover. And there’s _lots_ of work undercover, if you know what I mean.”

As Dean laughed softly in response, the fourth author stomped across the dais, ignoring them. He was an older man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair, who sat down, then glared at them before examining the name card that Hester set in front of him. Dean caught the guy’s name on the card: Frank something.

 People were beginning to fill the room, taking out their phones and snapping photos of the panelists. Dean made sure to school his features into a charming smile that he’d practiced over FaceTime with Bela until she was satisfied. _Exit Dean Winchester, human being. Enter Dean Winchester, brand._

Hester sat down on the far left and tapped her mic. She glanced at the empty chair on the far right, rolled her eyes, and arranged some papers in front of her. After glancing at her watch, she spoke into the mic. “We’re going to go ahead and get started. This is the panel _Magic in the Real World: Urban Fantasy_. And I’m delighted to welcome the following urban fantasy authors.”

At that moment, someone stealthily took the chair on the far right. Dean glanced over to see the guy from the bar. Cas. And he hadn’t bothered to change into more professional attire. Dean gave him a puzzled look and Cas raised an eyebrow in return.

“We’ll start on the far end,” Hester continued, “with CJ Novak, author of the popular Angel Warriors series.”

Dean’s eyes widened as Hester continued to introduce the panelists. He was barely aware of his own introduction. _Cas was CJ Novak?_ Dean was more familiar with the authors who were published by the larger New York publishers, especially PRHB, who published his Beast Hunters series. But even he had heard of CJ Novak, who somehow managed to make trending lists on social media whenever a new book came out. CJ rarely did appearances, though, and there were never any author photos available. In fact, Dean had been certain CJ was a woman.

Hester began with the questions she’d emailed to all of the panelists, questions typical for an author panel. How did you get started writing? Why urban fantasy? Where do you get your ideas? What’s your most favorite and least favorite part of writing? What’s next for you—what are you working on now?

“So Dean,” Hester asked, “in your Beast Hunters series, your two protagonists—best friends since high school—track down non-human creatures who are threats to humanity.”

“Well, sure,” Dean said. “Everything from those creatures that go bump in the night to your classic monsters: vampires, werewolves, ghouls. I try to research monsters from different cultures too. Chupacabras, wendigos, poltergeists, sirens, basilisks.”

“What would your protagonists do if an angel from one of CJ’s books showed up? Would they kill it?”

Dean paused for a moment, unsure how to answer that when the author was sitting literally six feet away. “I guess it would depend on whether they thought the angel was a threat to humanity.”

“But your characters, Tristan and Ross, are more likely to shoot first and ask questions later,” Hester continued. “Would being faced with an angel cause them to question the morality of what they’re doing?”

“Well, honestly, I’m more interested in writing a good story, something fun that takes people away from the difficult questions of real life. Readers get to fight their fears vicariously, and that’s what they love.” Dean hoped that non-answer would get across his purpose for writing, as well as avoid offense.

“CJ,” Hester turned her attention to the end of the table. “What would your angel characters think about the Beast Hunters?”

Cas offered her an easy smile and looked out at the audience. “Humans find all kinds of reasons to support their own personal morality, including religious beliefs and personal experience. The Beast Hunters have their own morality, largely based on their shared experiences and how they were raised. If you put them in a situation where a celestial being now tells them that there is only one correct morality, I suspect they’d become argumentative and rebellious.” Turning to Dean, Cas winked. “But if Dean were ever open to writing a crossover novel, it would be fun to find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

At the end of the panel, attendees formed lines to talk to the panelists. Dean noticed that Cas’ line was more men than women, while his own was the opposite. Charlie’s line was almost entirely women, only a handful of people—mostly men—came up to talk to Tessa but didn’t seem as interested in her book as they were in her, and Frank was loudly and forcefully debating conspiracy theories with a fan.

According to the con rules, he couldn’t sign books except during official book signing times, but he was allowed to answer questions until the room monitor ushered them out. He watched as Cas left the room, talking with a group of fans, and he raced through the remaining questions, feeling a little guilty for not giving them his full attention but wanting to catch up with Cas before he had to attend his publisher’s luncheon.

 

It took another ten minutes, and then he was out of the ballroom and into the hotel lobby. People were milling around, the bar was still crowded, and everywhere he looked in the elegant surroundings, groups were making plans to go to lunch. He scanned heads for the messy dark hair but wasn’t finding him, and sighed, feeling an inexplicable sense of disappointment.

“Looking for someone?”

The rough voice just behind his shoulder surprised Dean and he whirled around to see Cas standing right there, an innocent look on his face. “You, actually.”

“Me? Why?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were CJ Novak?”

Cas huffed a laugh, one side of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Only fans call me CJ. Friends call me Cas. I was hoping we could be friends.”

“Well…yeah. I just…I thought CJ Novak was…you know…” Dean cringed. “A woman.”

Cas ran a hand over his stubble and nodded once. “I was a man the last time I checked. But I can check again if there’s some question.”

“No, you dork,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen _West Wing_. CJ just seemed like a woman’s name. And the whole angel thing. Aren’t chicks more into that?”

“Have you read a bible? Jewish or Christian? Book of Daniel, Ezekiel…angels are badass. Also, I’m named for one.”

“Really?”

“Castiel, the angel of Thursday. Castiel James. CJ. But you can call me Cas.”

“Okay. Cas. Hey, I’d like to—”

“Hello, boys.” A smug-looking bearded man in a black three-piece suit slung his arm possessively over Dean’s shoulders. “Bela wants to talk to you at lunch,” he purred in a British accent. “And you are, of course, coming for drinks tonight?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Planning to. Um, Crowley, this is CJ Novak,” he motioned toward Cas. “Crowley’s my agent.”

“Delighted,” Crowley said to Cas, sounding anything but. “Who represents you?”

“Me,” Cas said, not missing a beat. “Crowley a first name or last?”

“Only,” Crowley answered. “I find two names nauseatingly redundant. And initials to be pretentious. But seeing as you are without representation,” Crowley pulled a gold case out of his breast pocket and produced a business card, “I would be happy to help you navigate this lion’s den of the book publishing world.”

“You’re too kind,” Cas replied with what Dean could already tell was a fake smile. “But I have excellent representation. He’s an absolute angel.”

“Even so,” Crowley said, tucking the card into Cas’ sport coat, “I’m better. Sure, you might be able to get your popularity up on social media and the like. But can you _keep_ it up?” He turned to Dean, patted him on the shoulder and sauntered off.

“ _That’s_ your agent?” Cas asked once Crowley was out of earshot.

“He’s a bit much, I agree. But he got me with PRHB, and another five-book contract.”

“Well, that’s good. So, Charlie and I are going to have lunch. You want to join us?”

“Um…I wish I could, but I’ve got a thing with the publisher. I need to show up.”

“Of course. Maybe dinner then?”

“Yeah…” Dean tried to get his schedule straight in his head. “I’m on another panel this afternoon. Paths to publication. And I have a signing after. But maybe after that?”

“As it turns out, I’m on that panel too. I’ll see you then, Dean.”

Dean stood there, watching Cas cross the lobby, his gaze unintentionally dropping to the other man’s ass before he shook himself back to the present and headed to the concierge to get directions to the publisher’s luncheon.

 

* * *

 

Lunch was an overpriced restaurant that specialized in miniature versions of traditional bar food. Dean ordered a cheeseburger and house fries, only to discover that the burger was, figuring generously, three inches in diameter. The half-dozen fries were shoestring-style and limp. He remembered passing a couple fast-food joints on the walk over, and figured he could slip out early enough to grab a real meal before his afternoon panel.

One of the publishing executives stood at the head of the large rectangular table and made a few comments about how the well the company was doing, how proud he was to be bringing new books to the masses, and how pleased they all should feel to be part of the entire thing. Dean interpreted that to mean the publisher made a boatload of money that the authors would never see. Par for the course.

After a toast with cheap wine to “all of the rock stars who add to our collective success,” the suit sat down and Dean inhaled his burger bite.

A pair of manicured hands started massaging his shoulders. “Sweetie, we need to talk.”

Shrugging the hands off, Dean twisted in his chair. “Bela. Do we need to talk here at the table?”

“Of course not.” Bela sounded affronted. “I have a private table. Come with me.”

Dean grabbed his water and followed Bela to a table for two in the back of the restaurant, near the restrooms. She already had two stacks of papers and a lightweight jacket at her seat.

“So what’s all this about?” Dean asked once they were seated.

Bela picked up a handful of documents. “I’m going to need you to sign these, honey.”

“What, exactly, are ‘these?’”

“We’ve had to make some changes to your contract. Just a few minor modifications. All above board, of course.”

Dean held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Hesitantly, Bela handed them over, then steepled her fingers in front of her mouth.

As Dean flipped through the proposed contract changes, two things became clear: instead of the two books per year he was expected to submit, he would now have to produce three. And his royalty percentage was being cut nearly in half. He tossed them back on the table. “No. That isn’t gonna happen.”

“Easy there, tiger. This is why I wanted to talk to you about this.”

“You want three books a year and to pay me less. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that bad,” Bela said. “I mean, yes, we do have to cut royalties across the board, what with the rising costs of paper and shipping. But that’s why we’re increasing the number of titles, to offset the reduction in royalties.”

“So all that at the start of lunch about how well the company was doing was bullshit?”

“No, because the changes we’ve made are going to ensure the company is in a good position moving forward. You’re one of our star authors, Dean. We don’t want to lose you and we want to make sure we’re around to keep publishing your books for years to come.”

“Have you talked to my agent about this?”

“We don’t need to. This is a simple change of terms to our existing contract, which is allowed as long as both parties sign the amendment. Your agent will still get his percentage.”

“Which will be less, Bela. I don’t think Crowley will be happy about that. But let’s see, huh?” Dean pulled out his phone and scrolled through the contacts. “I’ll just give him a quick call—”

“That’s not necessary,” Bela interrupted. “Look, it’s been a tough year. Sales are down, costs are up, the economy isn’t doing as well as we’d hoped. I meant everything I said before. We do want to keep publishing your books. They sell well; you’ve got a dedicated fan base. There’s even the possibility of further foreign language sales, even a TV pilot if we can get an interested producer. We can launch you into superstardom, Dean. But only if we cut our costs. We haven’t offered additional titles to most of our other authors. Just the ones we really want to promote. And you’ll have the full backing of our entire marketing department. We might even assign you your own publicist.” She picked up the documents and held them out with a pen. “You just have to sign.”

Dean took the documents and looked them over again. “I would like to have my attorney review this.” He flashed her a grin. “I remember being encouraged to do that when I was offered my last contract. The one you’re changing. Due diligence and all that.”

“Okay. When can you have it back to me?”

“I’ll let you know. If my attorney says it’s all kosher, I’ll sign it and get it in the mail the same day. Sound good?”

“I can live with that. But I can only hold this open for about two weeks. If it looks like you’re stalling, or you’re not going to sign, we might have to exercise our at-will clause.” Bela looked at him level. “I want to be clear about this, Dean.”

Chewing on the inside of his lip, Dean stared back. “So I sign or you drop me? Am I hearing that threat correctly?”

“Of course it’s not a threat, sweetheart. We really do want to keep you on. But I understand if you can’t sign, and obviously we’ll give you an opportunity to buy out all our remaining stock of your titles at the standard discount. We’re not mercenaries.”

Dean carefully folded the documents into thirds and tucked them into his jacket pocket. “I appreciate your candor, Bela. I’ll call my attorney today and we’ll get this taken care of.”

Bela stood with him and reached out her hand to touch his forearm. “I really hope we’ll continue to work together for a long time, Dean.”

With a single nod, Dean left the restaurant, trying to clear his head on the way back to the hotel. Being published by a large New York house was all he’d known, and if he turned down the contract amendment, he could easily earn a reputation in the industry for demanding unfairly high royalties, which would make it harder to get signed with a new publisher. But if he signed, wasn’t he silently telling them they could walk all over him?

He checked his watch and saw he had about forty-five minutes before he needed to be at his afternoon panel. Enough time to freshen up in his room and call his brother for some legal advice. His nerves got the better of him and as soon as he closed the door to his room, he pulled out his phone.

“Law offices of Sam Winchester,” answered a familiar voice.

“Sammy! How’s it hangin’?”

“Hey Dean. Why are you calling? Aren’t you at a convention?”

“Yeah. Got a short break before my next panel. Um…I got a legal question for you.”

“Of course. Shoot. Oh, hang on…”

Dean could hear rustling on the other end, followed by the squeal of what could only be his three-year-old nephew Gabriel.

“Gabe,” Sam admonished, “I’m not telling you again. Play-Doh belongs on the table, not the floor. Look, here’s your animal shapes. You can make an elephant or a dolphin. Or a butterfly? How about a butterfly?”

“No!” Gabe shouted. “Platypus!”

“You can make a platypus if you want. But we don’t have a platypus cookie cutter. How about an alligator?”

“Platypus!”

“Then make a platypus.” Sam’s voice was becoming frustrated.

“I don’t know how!” Gabe whined.

“Then make it up. You can make the Gabriel platypus. In fact, why don’t you make a Gabriel platypus while I’m talking to Uncle Dean, and then we’ll take a picture of it and text it to Mommy.”

“Unca Dean! I make Gabee-el platypus!”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh as there was more rustling and then Sam sighed into the phone.

“Remind me again why I offered to be the at-home dad while Jess gets a quiet office,” Sam said.

“’Cause you’re crazy in love with your wife.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Sam sighed again, then chuckled. “Gabe’s obsessed with the platypus. I don’t even know where he learned about them.”

“PBS?” Dean offered.

“I don’t know. We restrict his TV use, but that kid can get into anything. I set him in front of PBS one time, took out the trash, and came back to discover him watching _Phineas and Ferb_. And I had the remote in my pocket. Dean, I caught him on top of the refrigerator the other day, just so he could get his hands on a package of lollipops Jess keeps up there. By the time I found him, he had two in his mouth and one in his hair. I had to cut it out.”

“Jess still using the lollipops to keep from chewing her nails?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t complain. She’s under a lot of stress there. Everything’s about getting ahead and trying to make partner. I just have to watch the little trickster and drum up enough clients to pay the bills.”

“Well, then you’re not gonna like what I have to ask.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Dean. You put me through law school. So, what is it?”

“My publisher wants to amend my contract: increase the number of titles per year from two to three and cut my royalty percentage in half. I’ve got the documents. I need to know if they can do this, and if the amendment is legal.”

“Wow. Um…yeah, I’ve got your current contract on file here. Can you send me the proposed amendment? Maybe scan them or take photos or something? Or maybe the hotel has a fax?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Thing is, they phrased it like an ultimatum. Sign or be dropped. And if they drop me for demanding higher royalties, I’m poison to other publishers.”

“I’ll look them over, Dean. I can give you my legal advice and then my brotherly advice, but you know they might not advise the same course of action. You’re in a cutthroat business that likes to chew up authors and spit them out when they stop earning enough money.”

“Right. Like you aren’t?”

“Touché. Just…think about it, okay? You were excited about becoming co-owner of Custom Classics with Bobby after Dad died. I’m sure Bobby’d still take you on.”

“I know, Sam. And I love restoring classic cars, you know that. But this series…this was my dream, you know? As a kid. Whatever demons Dad thought he was hiding from with his drinking, man, I went out, hunted them all down, and ganked every one. When I had to stay awake, waitin’ for him to come home so I could judge how safe we were, that’s what kept me occupied, just makin’ up those stories in my head. And now I’ve got readers who send me fan mail and tell me those stories help them too. I can’t give it up until _I’m_ ready to give it up. I don’t want it to end just ‘cause my publisher wants more money.”

“Okay, Dean. I’ll look over the papers once I get them. Just know that you’ve got options. Okay? You’ve got a soft spot to land.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sammy. I’ve got to run. Got a panel coming up about paths to publication and from the lineup, I’m pretty sure I’m the only author signed with one of the Big Five.”

“Break a leg. But only metaphorically.”

Dean grinned as he hung up. He washed his face and double-checked his hair, then consulted his watch again. He was fairly certain he’d seen a fax machine in the business office, which he’d pass on the way to the ballrooms. Maybe he could get these documents off to Sam before his panel. And then he had to go be a cheerleader for the Big Five New York publishing houses, right when he felt the worst about them. A sudden thought had him hurrying toward the door. Cas had said he’d be on that panel too.


	3. Chapter 3

The business office indeed had a working fax machine, and Dean headed for the New Sweden meeting room, arriving fifteen minutes before the scheduled start time. There were easily enough chairs to seat two hundred, and it was already looking like it might fill up.

He spotted Cas, who’d changed into a cobalt blue sweater, talking to a brunette woman in a black tank top and jeans, and figured she was either another panelist or the moderator.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greeted him as he approached.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean turned to the woman and held out his hand. “Dean Winchester.”

“Pamela Barnes,” the woman said with a broad smile. “I’m your moderator. Thanks for coming early. As I said in my last email, I’m not interested in any surprises. This panel was picked specifically to have someone from different aspects of publishing talk about what it’s like for them. I want to save the last half of the panel for questions from the audience. I’m sure we’ll have a lot.”

“Awesome,” Dean said. “Anywhere you want me to sit?”

“I saved you a chair, Dean,” Cas offered.

“Really?”

Cas gave him a half-smile. “I wanted to sit next to you. Was that wrong?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.” Dean flashed a grin and made his way up the steps to the panelists’ table, Cas behind him.

 

Pamela welcomed everyone warmly and indicated the five panelists with her arm. “I’m going to introduce each of you and I’d like you to say one sentence about your path to publication. Just _one_ sentence, writers.” She winked. “On the end, we have Kevin Tran, acquisitions editor for Tor Books. Kevin, you’re not published yourself, but you play a key part in publishing others.”

“Correct,” Kevin said. The young man’s face transformed from nervous to focused. “I’m only paid for 40 hours a week, but I spend every night sitting up late, reading manuscripts on my tablet until my eyes cross, because I’m _that_ committed to getting writers published.”

“And we appreciate it,” Pamela said. “Next to Kevin is Charlie Bradbury. Charlie is the founder and owner of B!tch Books, which publishes fantasies with an LGBTQ focus, and Charlie, you have over one hundred titles published, including your own lesbian techno-fantasy series.”

“Yep! Gosh, I’m not sure how I’m going to do this in one sentence, except I’m really good with conjunctions—have that whole _Schoolhouse Rock_ song memorized, you know—but yeah, I have six books out now of my own and I just published title number 127, with authors all over the country and Canada, and another sixty titles under consideration or on contract, and—oh!—I also write _Wizard of Oz_ fanfiction for fun; does that work for one sentence?”

Pamela laughed. “There’s a workshop on brevity tonight between seven and seven-fifteen. You might want to attend. Next to Charlie is CJ Novak. CJ is the author of the Angel Warriors series, including the award-winning _Heaven’s Wrath_ , and _The Clarion’s Prophecy_. CJ has twelve books out now, a Twitter following of more than two and a half million people, and this is his very first convention. Welcome, CJ!”

Cas gave the audience what looked more like a smirk. “I decided early on that I never wanted to be bound to anything other than my own conscience, free to make my own decisions and reap the rewards or suffer the consequences, so I’ve self-published every one of my books and I’ve never once regretted it.”

“Such a rebel,” Pamela said. “I like that about you.” She turned to Dean. “And last but definitely not least is Dean Winchester. Dean is the author of the Beast Hunters series published by PRHB, and he’s got the whole deal: agent, editor, marketing department, art department, you name it. Dean?”

“Well, it was, you know, a lot of hard work and dozens of queries and a lot of waiting and writing more books, never knowing if you’d be published or not, and yeah,” he shot a look at Cas, “I’ve got to answer to my agent and my editor, but they do a lot for me that I never have to worry about, so that’s nice.”

“All right,” Pamela said. “Thank you all. I have a few questions I want to make sure get asked, and then I’m going to open it up to the audience for questions, because I’m sure you all have a lot. So, Kevin let’s go back to you for a moment. Tell me what an acquisitions editor does, exactly.”

 

The panel went quickly, with questions ranging from “Do I have to finish my book before I try to find an agent?” to “What’s the point of having a publisher these days when you can get your work directly out to your readers?” Dean was exhausted at the end, a dull headache starting to pound behind his eyes. He felt a little defensive, as if traditional publishing was being put on trial and he was its sole defender.

So many of the convention’s attendees were seriously considering getting their work published through Amazon’s CreateSpace or Ingram Spark or some other service geared toward young millennials with discretionary spending money and a do-it-yourself mentality. Dean tried to argue for gate-keeping editors who kept the mediocre writing out of the bookstores and cover designers who knew what they were doing beyond teaching themselves Photoshop via YouTube, but either Charlie or Cas had some _inspirational_ anecdote about publishing a bestselling book with a ninety-nine dollar investment or some such crap, and Dean was certain the resulting book was inferior in every way.

“Okay guys,” Pamela said, standing. “I’ve got to get you over to the signing area, and we’re already about five minutes late. You can leave your water bottles here; they’ll have more for you at the tables. Pens are provided. Just grab your stuff and let’s head out!”

Dean followed immediately, ignoring both Cas and Charlie. He was looking forward to spending some time signing books and chatting with his fans. That was always the best part of coming to one of these conventions, and it never failed to make him feel better.

“Dean.” Cas jogged to catch up, then fell into step with him. “Is something wrong? You seem angry.”

“Yeah. A little. I was kind of attacked back there. They called my publisher a dinosaur. ‘Legacy publishing,’ like it’s obsolete.”

“To be fair, Dean, a lot of traditional publishers _are_ obsolete. That’s not saying you are, or that your books aren’t worthy of being out there.”

“Hey! What’d I miss?” Charlie said, a little out of breath as she followed along, her legs taking two strides for every one of theirs.

“Dean’s feeling under attack from the somewhat anti-legacy-publishing group,” Cas explained.

“Somewhat?” Dean raised his eyebrows at Cas. “You think? How about _rabid_?”

“I get it from both sides,” Charlie said. “I’m a legacy publisher to my authors, but an indie publisher for myself.”

“So how—?” Dean didn’t have a chance to finish as Pamela directed him toward a table and herded the other two off. He sat in his chair, picked up a pen and clicked the push button a few times, and plastered a happy face on for the sake of his fans. The signing area was set up like the outline of the letter U, with small tables facing each other in the U-shape, readers able to walk the wide aisle of the U or wait for autographs between facing tables. He saw Pamela direct Charlie to a table facing away from him. Cas was taken to a table opposite him.

 Immediately, Cas was obscured by readers with books in their arms. There was a book room adjacent, with several vendors all selling books by the authors attending the convention, as well as the classic fantasies and the bestsellers.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Winchester?” A young woman with long blond hair and a nervous smile could barely look at him as she clutched the first book in his series to her chest. “I’d love to get your autograph.”

Laughter erupted from Cas’ table and Dean tried to ignore it. “Call me Dean,” he said with a wink, which caused her to blush adorably. He held his hand out and she took it in a handshake, her hand sticky with perspiration.

Dean chuckled and motioned with his hand after she’d relinquished it. “No, I meant…I need the book to sign it.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The young woman looked like she wanted to disappear out of embarrassment. She handed the book over and covered her eyes. “I thought you were…and then I…I didn’t realize…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean said, signing the title page. “Beautiful woman like you, who wouldn’t want to shake your hand? What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She looked up, tears in her eyes. “Carmen. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He stood and motioned her closer, noting the growing line behind her. “In my next book,” he whispered in her ear, “Ross gets a love interest. I’m naming her after you.”

“Oh my God!” Carmen repeated before covering her mouth this time.

Dean sat back down and quickly wrote a note above his signature, then handed the book back with a grin. He watched Carmen regroup with some friends and gesture excitedly back toward him. Feeling far more confident, he returned to the line of people waiting for him to sign their books, which was now much longer than Cas’ had been. _That’ll show you_.

“Hiya, gorgeous,” he greeted the next woman in line. “Are you the lucky person I get to sign this for?”

 

An hour and a half later, Dean’s hand was sore from what he figured had to have been a couple hundred autographs. Many people had bought multiple titles and asked that he sign them all, which he was happy to do. A few of the women and two of the men left cell phone numbers, _in case he had some time_. Not that he intended to take any of them up on their offers. It was harmless flirting, something he knew he could do well, a mask he could put on, so he didn’t have to be himself. In a way, Bela was right: if he acted out Dean Winchester, brand, then he didn’t have to feel as though Dean Winchester, human being, wasn’t enough.

“Hi Dean!” Charlie grabbed him in a bear hug from behind, squeezing hard enough that he coughed.

“Hey, yourself, Charlie.”

“Cas and I are going to have a couple drinks, then dinner. You’ll come, right?”

“I’ve got this thing,” Dean started. “My agent—”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greeted from in front of the table. “Will you join us for dinner?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “You know what? Yeah. I will. I was supposed to meet Crowley tonight, but it’s gonna be a night of overpriced liquor and overinflated egos and I’d rather spend the time with you.”

“Awesome!” Charlie gave him another hug. “I know just the place. You ever been to London?”

“I’ve never even been outside the United States. And isn’t London a bit far away from Minneapolis?”

“The city? Yes. The food? Nope. And we can walk there from here. Come on!”

“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Dean asked Cas as they maneuvered their way out of the signing area.

“I got the ‘Have you been to London?’ question yesterday. As it turns out, I _have_ been to London, but Charlie informs me I won’t notice the difference.”

“Has Charlie been to London?”

“Charlie’s been everywhere,” Charlie called out from in front of them. “And my hearing is exceptional.”

 

The walk to London—or more accurately, the walk to a restaurant called Brit’s Pub—was indeed short, and the weather was beautiful for an upper Midwest evening. Low humidity, few mosquitoes, mostly clear skies with wisps of clouds soon to be painted pink and purple by the setting sun. They found a table on the outdoor deck and browsed the menu.

“One burger? They have _one_ burger?” Dean stared at the back of the menu and the sole burger selection. He opened the menu, skipped over all the fish, chicken, and turkey options, briefly considered the New York strip steak, and then he spotted the Brit’s steak sandwich. “Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, “now that’s what I’m talking about. London broil, melted cheese.” He set the menu down. “You pick good, Charlie. I approve.”

“Of course I pick good. I don’t go anywhere I haven’t fully vetted first.”

“Oh yeah? And what are you getting?”

“Why, the royal sampler, of course!” Charlie said with an affected accent and a wave of her hand.

“What about you, Cas?” Dean asked. “You see anything you like?”

“I think I will need to try the fish and chips, compare them to what I had in Britain.”

“But first, a drink for toasting,” Charlie said.

Dean had been eyeing the scotch sampler. “Sign me up.”

 

The scotch was good. All of it. Dean listened as Charlie and Cas talked about their respective trips to London—Charlie went on a pilgrimage to all the British band sites; Cas was sent there for a semester of boarding school—and debated the merits of British versus American beers.

“You gotta be the tiebreaker, Winchester.” Charlie nudged him with her elbow. “Guinness or Newcastle?”

No way was Dean getting into the middle of this. A three-way tie seemed like the better option. “I’ve always been partial to Sam Smith’s. The oatmeal stout is like this chocolate toffee pie my mom used to make.”

“Where do you get Samuel Smith’s in the States?” Charlie asked.

“Um…” Dean had to think through his many road trips, then he snapped his fingers. “Ames, Iowa. I do on-site research for a lot of my books. This one was for _Hunt for a Giving Heart_. Tristan and Ross travel to Ames, Iowa when a heart transplant recipient goes nuts and starts killing people, removing and eating their hearts.”

“I remember that one,” Cas said. “Turned out a serial killer was the organ donor, and you used cell memory science to show that the need to kill survived the transplant. That was really well-written.”

“Yeah, well I wrote most of it half-drunk in this bar in Ames called London Underground.” Dean shrugged. “Sometimes I do my best writing when I get my inhibitions out of the way.”

“I hear you.” Charlie nodded. “We’ve all got this editor in our heads. Most of the time I think all mine does is tear my work to shreds.”

“You need to replace those thoughts with what your readers have said.” Cas took a drink and motioned with the glass in his hand. “Except when those readers are sending you hate mail. I turned off all my social media notifications. Half the trolls want to have sex with me; the other half want me dead.”

“Either way, that’s creepy,” Dean said. “How in the world do you keep that many fans on social media when you don’t interact with them? Bela’s always on my case for that whole interaction thing. She’s certain that if I’m _authentic_ and _approachable_ then more people will buy my books.”

Cas grinned. “I give them what they don’t know they need.”

“I follow you on Twitter,” Charlie said. “Tell me more about this, Jedi Master.”

Instead, Cas turned to Dean. “Your publisher is all about selling books, yes?” Cas asked.

“Well, yeah. That’s how they make money. That’s how _I_ make money.”

“And how do they guide you to behave on social media?”

Dean swallowed the last bit of his last scotch. “They want me to update fans on what I’m working on, what research I’m doing, the plot of the next book, upcoming appearances. That sort of thing.”

“But all book-related, correct?”

“Yeah. What else am I supposed to talk about?”

“I geek out with my fans,” Charlie added. “Anything on the new _Star Wars_ movie, what I thought about JK Rowling’s newest books. I share a lot of YouTube videos. But I don’t have nearly as many fans as you do. So, give it up Novak. What are you offering that none of us know we need?”

“Human beings are highly susceptible to tunnel vision.”

“You say that like you’re not human, Cas,” Dean observed.

Cas raised an eyebrow and Dean raised his hands, palm-out.

“You see what you’re focused on and don’t notice much else,” Cas continued. “I look for what’s on the periphery. In the hotel parking lot, there was a Ford Focus and a Chevy Spark parked next to each other. Both were neon green. It’s an unusual color for a car. I took a photo of them, edited out the license plates, and tweeted it with the tagline ‘compact fluorescents.’”

“So you pun with them,” Dean said.

“Not exactly. The African Oxpecker is often seen riding on the hide of a giraffe. The Oxpecker eats the ticks that are feeding on the giraffe, as it also does with other mammals in Africa. I pulled some photos together, put a saddle on the giraffe, added a cowboy hat and spurs to the enlarged Oxpecker sitting in the saddle, and tweeted it without a caption.”

“I love how your brain works!” Charlie grinned.

Dean scowled. “So you’re just weird, then?”

“People follow me to find out what I’m going to send out next. I’m rarely predictable. Sometimes I post about moral causes I believe in. When you write about angels, a little morality is bound to bleed through. And occasionally I post about something that happened in one of my books. Maybe ten percent of the time. By then, they’re already invested in what I have to say, and they go check out my books.”

“So you create an active, engaged audience by kind of inviting them into how you see the world. And then you mention, ‘Oh yeah, and I also write books.’” Charlie nodded enthusiastically and smacked Cas on the upper arm. “I like.”

“‘Oh, I write a little too,’” Dean quoted. “You said that to me at the bar this morning.”

“That might have been a bit of subterfuge on my part,” Cas admitted.

“Okay. So you’ve got a… _different_ way of seeing the world. I’m just a hick from the Kansas countryside, and an introvert to boot. I don’t see that social media strategy working for me.”

Dean watched, momentarily paralyzed, as Cas looked him over like he might be an appetizer. Or dessert.

“First, Dean, don’t ever devalue yourself. Second, I can think of a much better strategy for you. With the way you look, you could sell pretty much anything.”

“Says the guy with the sex hair.” Dean immediately winced. He didn’t mean to say that out loud.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Charlie broke it. “I am _so_ hungry! Who’s ready to order?”

 

The food was delicious, and conversation returned to small talk until they were mostly done eating. There was one thing Dean really wanted to know. “Tell me more about this hybrid company you have, Charlie.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before the signing, you said you’re a legacy publisher for your authors but an indie for yourself.”

“Yeah. What are you really asking?”

“How do you avoid the stigma that either one seems to have?”

“Oh, I don’t. I just don’t let it bother me. Have you read Harry Potter?”

Dean shrugged. “Hasn’t everyone by now?”

“You’d be surprised how many haven’t,” Charlie said. “Hermione is my hero. If she’d believed what others said about Muggle-born children, she’d never have made it as far as she did. She believed in herself, in her own power. That made all the difference. So I believe in myself and I ignore what others say. They aren’t me and they don’t have the same experiences I have. Most of them know nothing about how I run my business. They haven’t earned the right to give me constructive feedback.”

Chewing on his lip, Dean pondered how much to say, then decided to go for it. “My editor wants to change the terms of my contract. Shorter deadlines and half the royalties. If I don’t sign, I’m out.”

“What? If that’s not illegal, it’s at least unethical.”

“My brother, Sam, he’s a lawyer. I faxed the amendment to him this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said, putting his hand on Dean’s forearm. “That puts you in a difficult position.”

“Yeah, well…”

Cas removed his hand and played with his water glass. “I was serious about the crossover novel. I would publish it. You have ways to get your work out to your readers that don’t require big publishers anymore.”

“I know. Sam said the same thing, that I’ve got a soft spot to land. I even have half a classic car restoration company that my dad left to me, if the books don’t work out.”

Cas’ eyes were wide. “You restore classic cars?”

“It’s what I did while I was writing and sending queries out to agents. I restored my car, a ’67 Chevy Impala.”

“You, Dean Winchester, are a man of many talents.”

Charlie covered a big yawn with her hand. “Guys, I’m gonna call it a night. I was up early this morning and it’s been a big day. But you two should stay and talk. Seriously. Stay and talk.” She got up and grabbed their bill. “Dinner’s on me. I mean, not literally, of course. Just… You know, I’m really tired.” She gave them the Vulcan hand salute. “See you tomorrow, bitches!”

After watching her leave, Dean turned back to Cas. “You want to stay and talk?”

“No.”

“No?” Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of rejection.

“I’d rather talk and walk. I was looking at a map of Minneapolis earlier. This street we’re on—Nicolet Mall—is pedestrian-only and goes almost to the river. I figure it’s about a half-hour walk to the river. What do you say? You want to walk with me?”

Dean felt a smile growing on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”


	4. Chapter 4

“What made you want to be an author?” Cas asked as they strolled along the wide sidewalk dotted with trees and outdoor seating from another restaurant. A breeze had picked up as the sun set and they stopped by the hotel long enough for Cas to grab his coat—an ugly, _Columbo_ -looking trench coat that looked ridiculous over his blue sweater.

“My dad was in Viet Nam. Marines.”

Cas hummed sympathetically. “No one comes back from war unchanged.”

“Sounds like you know something about that.”

“I do. My father was career military. Air force. Went MIA when I was young. My oldest brother Michael followed in his footsteps, works in air force intelligence now. We don’t talk much. My other brother Bal was thirteen when Dad went missing and it did a number on him. His life since has been all about sex, drugs, booze, and parties.”

“Bal the one you’re crashing with?” Dean asked.

“Yes. Which is why it’s temporary. He can use the rent money and I needed a place to figure out my next move.” Cas gave Dean a small smile. “So how’d that lead to writing?”

“Well, you’re right. No one comes back unchanged. He saw some serious shit over there. I don’t even know what it was; he never talked about it. But full-on PTSD, man. When the flashbacks or the nightmares got too bad, he drank. And I know he loved us, me and Sam. He would have done anything for us. But sometimes the memories were just too much, you know?”

“What about your mother?”

“She, uh… She died when I was four.” Dean was quiet for a moment as they passed under an enclosed skyway and neared a sculpture of three great blue herons taking flight from a boulder. His hand accidentally bumped Cas’ as they walked. “Freak accident. Investigators said it was a faulty nightlight in Sam’s nursery, started a fire in the wall and no one knew until the electrical went haywire. Dad gave Sammy to me to carry out—Sam was just a baby—but he couldn’t get Mom out in time. The ceiling was on fire and part of it collapsed on her.”

“Dean, you’ve survived so much. I’m in awe.” Cas let out a long exhale. “You take control back in your books.” He said it like an observation.

“Yeah. I was pretty much responsible for raising Sam, so I’m no stranger to being in control. But my imagination was vivid. I didn’t understand PTSD back then, so I thought my dad was battling actual monsters, ones that only he could see, some that would attack him in his sleep. I couldn’t do anything about those.”

“You should know, your books help other readers who are feeling out of control or afraid in their own lives. You’re helping a lot more people than just yourself.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Cas gave him a half-smile. “I’ve read your reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. You’re doing a lot of good, Dean.”

“Maybe. If I keep my contract and continue to be published.”

“Your work will get into readers’ hands. I’m certain of that.”

Dean shrugged. “I hope so. I really do.”

Stopping near another sculpture, Cas waited until Dean met his eyes. “You need to have faith, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure how to answer that. Hard work, persistence, knowing the right people, making concessions, and sheer luck were certainly part of being published. But faith? He looked away, up at one of the skyscrapers across the next intersection before they started walking again. “How about you?” he finally asked Cas. “What got you into writing?”

“I mentioned my father was career military.”

“You did.”

“When he went MIA, my mother couldn’t cope. She shut down emotionally. Most of my childhood was her parenting through intimidation and control. That was the only way she knew to run a household. Michael was, as the oldest, the quintessential overachiever. Bossy. Perfectionistic. Bal tried to get her attention and when she didn’t respond with kindness, he acted out, tried to get her to respond with anger. My younger sister Anna was the baby. As far as my mother was concerned, she could do no wrong, but she was depressed much of the time. She ran away when she was fourteen, found dead of an overdose two years later.”

“And you?” Dean asked. “What was your role?”

“I was the peacemaker. Or I tried to be. But every time I tried to smooth things over, it always seemed to make things worse. I think I cared too much. After high school, I worked a lot of odd jobs, looking for what moved me, made me smile. And then one day I was browsing the new fiction section in the library and came across a novel titled _Hunt for an Avenger_ by debut author Dean Winchester.”

“You read my book?”

“Three times in a row. It wasn’t just the plot. It was the relationship between your protagonists, their friendship, and their faith in each other. I wanted that. I wanted someone who believed in me the way they believe in each other. And I’d been blogging back then about whatever interested me, and I started noticing that there were so many other people who wanted that too. I thought about my father watching over me, from wherever he was, kind of like a guardian angel. And I blogged little short stories I wrote about angels intervening in people’s lives. Dispatching an abusive husband. Preventing a suicide. Helping a runaway find a loving home.”

Dean felt a wave of something wash through him, warming him from the inside out. “You saved your sister in a story.”

“I tried.”

Dean caught Cas’ forearm with his hand as they walked under an antique-looking street lamp, bringing them to a stop. “Wait. Are you… Are you telling me that you got into writing because of reading my book?”

Blue eyes searched his own for a moment, reflecting the light from the overhead lamp. “No, Dean. I’m telling you that reading your book changed my life.”

Running a hand over his face, Dean tried to take it all in. “You never go to cons. Until now. Is that…?”

“Because you’re here.” Cas nodded. “Yes.”

“This is a lot to absorb, man,” Dean said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get quite so personal so quickly. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I trust you.”

“I’m not anything special, Cas.”

Stepping forward, close enough to touch, Cas held his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment. “You are, Dean. I wish you could see it, how amazing you are.” Cas licked his lips, a motion Dean couldn’t help but watch. “If this is all I can have, just meeting you, having this evening, it’s enough.”

Dean cleared his throat. “What do you mean, if this is all you can have?”

“I know I came on strong today. It was not my intention to make you feel uneasy, and I understand if you’d prefer I keep my distance.”

“No, Cas, I… I mean, nobody says things like that about me.”

“Then no one is telling you the truth.”

There was no hint of deception in Cas’ eyes or on his face, which Dean now realized was quite an attractive face. The tightness in his jeans said the rest of his body agreed. Dean had only ever dated women and considered himself somewhat of a ladies’ man. He’d been attracted, he could admit privately, to a guy or two before, and wondered what that might be like, to be with a dude. But he’d never met anyone worth considering seriously. And right now, he had too many responsibilities to even think about adding a relationship. There was something about this guy, though, that intrigued him, beyond the ego strokes.

“If you weren’t straight, that might have been worth a kiss,” Dean joked, pouring some of his Dean-Winchester-brand cockiness into his tone.

A lopsided smile graced Cas’ mouth. “Actually, I’m not straight.”

“Wait, what?”

“If you want to get technical about it, I’m on the asexual spectrum. Demisexual, to be specific. I’m not attracted to anyone unless I have a strong emotional bond with them.”

“Okay. But, you got a preference between dudes or chicks?”

“No, not really. I am quite enamored with green eyes, though.”

Dean chuckled and nodded with his head that they should continue walking. “You got a hot green-eyed girlfriend or boyfriend, then?”

Cas grinned. “Not yet.”

Shaking his head and laughing quietly, Dean decided to be honest. “Cas, I gotta tell you, I’m not good relationship material. And I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. With this whole contract thing up in the air, I don’t even know if I’ll have a job by next week.”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Dean. Besides, I don’t even know if you’re interested. You could have a hot girlfriend waiting at home for you.”

“No girlfriend. No boyfriend either. I’ve only ever dated chicks, but, uh…between you, me, and,” he cocked his head toward another street lamp, “the lamppost, yeah, I’d be interested. And not a word of that _ever_ gets repeated. Maybe I shouldn’t,” Dean said with a smirk, “but I trust you.”

“Thank you. For your trust. And whatever we might find together.”

“Okay, I’ve hit my limit on chick-flick moments. Can we change the subject?”

“Of course, Dean. What do you think about bees?”


	5. Chapter 5

The moment Dean stepped out of the hotel elevator, his phone pinged with a text.

**Received 7:29AM** Good morning, Dean. This is Cas. I saved a seat for you at table #11.

He paused beside a tall fern in the lobby and texted back.

**Sent 7:31AM** Thanks. Be there in a few.

The new authors’ breakfast was ungodly early, but it was a networking must-do, according to Bela. Thirty some-odd tables each had one or two new authors whose first books had just come out in the past year, and con attendees could pick the table they wanted to sit at to hear about that author’s debut novel. The authors often brought swag—bookmarks or pens or something fun—to give away. Years ago, when Dean was publicizing _Hunt for a Giving Heart_ at a convention, though not as a debut author, he’d brought pencil topper erasers shaped like anatomical hearts on pencils inscribed with the title. Of course, that was Bela’s idea too, and it was a good one: both the book room and Amazon sold out of his books.

He wondered which debut author Cas had chosen, but decided it didn’t matter. They’d spent several hours talking the night before, making it all the way down to the river and back, and while they didn’t agree on everything, Cas’ perspective was unique and his passion was inspiring. It was nice, for once, to be appreciated not for what he could do for someone else, but just for who he was.

Once inside the ballroom, Dean got into line for the fast-disappearing buffet food, and eventually loaded his plate up with eggs, bacon, sausage, French toast, and a few assorted breakfast pastries. He grabbed a mug of coffee and then scanned the tables for number eleven, finding it near one of the side walls.

Sure enough, Cas was sitting there, nursing a cup of coffee with a seemingly untouched plate of fruit in front of him. His trench coat was draped over the back of an empty chair, which Dean pulled out.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said, his hair looking even more disheveled than Dean thought was possible. “How did you sleep?”

“Not bad. Got my four hours in.” Dean nodded toward the fruit. “Not a big fan of the health food?”

Cas followed his gaze and shook his head. “Quite the contrary. I have…particular tastes first thing in the morning. Fruit was the only thing I thought I could handle from that pork- and bread-laden buffet.”

“Dude! They have _bacon_. You telling me you don’t think bacon is one of the best foods on the planet, aside from burgers, and, of course, pie?”

“Bacon is perfectly acceptable after noon, though I doubt the pigs would agree.”

“Pretty sure all those potential baby fruit trees would disagree with your breakfast too,” Dean said, before stuffing an entire sausage link into his mouth to prove a point.

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Manners, Dean,” he chided softly.

The table filled up slowly and by eight o’clock, the debut author across the table from Dean stood to address everyone, her hands shaking as she held up a book whose cover depicted a girl in black leather, looking warily over her shoulder while partially illuminated by a street lamp in an otherwise dark alley.

“Hi everyone, my name is Krissy Chambers, and my first novel is called _Once Bitten, Twice Die_. It’s about a young teen named Maddie who is a foster child by day and a sort of a superhero by night. Her parents were killed and the murderer was never caught. The police think it was someone who was a wannabe vampire, but Maddie isn’t convinced. While she tries to get along with her foster siblings, please her perfectionistic foster mother, and avoid her foster father’s inappropriate attention, she researches the case and goes out hunting for the killer. Not only does she find out that vampires exist, but she knows they didn’t kill her parents, because vampires don’t sedate their victims first.

“I brought bookmarks for everyone, and I’ll pass this copy around if you want to look at it. It’s available in the book room. Thank you all for listening to me.” Krissy let out a shaky breath and sat down quickly, handing the book off to the person immediately to her right. She finally looked around the table, her eyes getting wide as she spotted Dean.

“You’re—” She stopped suddenly and blushed. “I can’t believe you’re at my table.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only writer or reader here,” Dean said, eager to deflect her attention. “Let’s go around the table. I’m Dean Winchester, author of the Beast Hunter series.” He looked over to Cas.

“CJ Novak,” Cas said, “author of the Angel Warriors series.”

“Wait! _You’re_ CJ Novak?” the woman next to Cas nearly squealed. “I had no idea. And I’m sitting next to— I’m dead. I’m seriously dying over here.”

“Please don’t die,” Cas said. “That would be very difficult to explain to the con organizers.”

“Oh my God, I love you so much!” the woman said, patting Cas’ upper arm.

“Do you write?” Cas asked.

“Do I…? Oh. No. I’m here as a fan. A reader. I’ve read _all_ your books, CJ. Can I call you CJ? I can’t believe I’m sitting _next_ to you! Oh my God, I need a photo. Would you take a photo with me?”

Cas managed to disengage himself from her hand and suggested, “Let’s finish going around the table first.”

“Oh. Of course. I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed to everyone at the table. “I’m Codi. Look! Both our names start with C!” She sighed. “I’m so dead.”

The rest of the table attendees introduced themselves, revealing about half authors and half fans. The other authors were respectful toward Dean, but were overflowing with questions and praise for Cas.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean asked quietly while their tablemates were talking among themselves. “I have readers. You have _fangirls_.”

“It’s an unfortunate consequence of my not doing public appearances or photos, I’m afraid.”

“Unfortunate?” Dean scoffed. “Dude, that’s just adding to your appeal.”

“Dean, it’s…complicated. There are things about me you don’t know.”

“Then you need to tell me. I can’t be whatever you want us to be if you’re not honest with me.”

“I know. But not here. Not now.”

“—how you managed to do that?” another author at the table was asking.

Cas smiled slightly and Dean saw the moment Cas’ own mask slipped back on. “I’ll be on the Marketing Strategies for Indie Authors panel later this morning,” Cas said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to answer all your questions then.”

Further questions and praise followed, and Dean had to clench his fists under the table every time he felt jealousy getting the better part of him. He’d just clenched them again when he felt a warm hand cover one fist. He looked up to see Cas staring into his eyes. “They know who you are,” Cas whispered. “You might even intimidate them a bit. But remember you’re the only one who gets to call me Cas.” Cas squeezed his fist and returned to a conversation without missing a beat.

Dean let out a long breath and relaxed. The more he thought about it, the more his rational brain told him that all the people who were fawning all over Cas were also interested in his success as a self-published author. They didn’t want to know about agents and legacy publishers. It wasn’t personal.

Near the end of breakfast, his phone buzzed and he surreptitiously checked the display. Sam had called and left a voicemail. He wondered if it was about the contract amendment, and immediately felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. About to excuse himself to find out what Sam had said, Dean remembered the feel of Cas’ hand over his and he relaxed again. How such a simple action could assuage his anxiety, he wasn’t sure, but he’d take it wherever he could get it.

“Are you going to come to the marketing panel?” Cas asked as others began getting up to leave.

“I wasn’t planning on it. Like you said, I just have to answer to my editor.”

“You should come, Dean. Besides, I think I’d like to have you there.”

“Oh really?”

“CJ?” Codi came over, putting her hand back on Cas’ arm, “Would you take a photo with me? I’d love to post it to Facebook! And Twitter! And Tumblr! You would make me so happy! So would you? Please?”

“I’m sorry, Codi. I don’t do photos. But if you’ve got something to sign, I’ll give you an autograph.”

“You would? Well…here!” She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse and held out her forearm.

Cas tilted his head in confusion. “You want me to sign your arm?”

“Yes! I’ll get it tattooed! This is fantastic!”

“Okay…” Cas pulled out a Sharpie from his coat pocket and signed his name, then watched her walk out of the ballroom, bumping into two tables on her way.

Dean started as Cas grabbed him by the arm and pulled him farther away from the doors. “Cas, what’re you—”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Your phone, Dean. Give it to me.”

Dean unlocked his phone, handed it over reluctantly, and stared as Cas tapped on the screen a few times, then took a selfie and handed it back.

“Thought you just said you didn’t do photos?”

Cas’ eyes crinkled with a smile that barely graced his mouth. “The only other people who have my photo are family.”

Dean stared at the photo and then back at Cas. “What time’s that marketing panel again?”


	6. Chapter 6

While Cas went back to his room to get whatever he needed for his panel, Dean placed a call to his brother.

“You said to call when I got a chance?” Dean said after Sam picked up.

“Yeah. Dean, I’m sorry. It’s legal. Your original contract allows for the publisher to make changes to the contract as long as you both sign in writing within thirty days. If you don’t sign within thirty days, they have the option to terminate.”

“Why didn’t you catch this when I first got the contract?” Dean wanted to know.

“It’s pretty standard for a book contract,” Sam explained patiently. “If you don’t deliver a manuscript on time or to their liking, they can terminate the contract. If they decide not to publish your book, you can terminate it. You’ve got a standard right of first refusal clause here, so you have to offer them your next manuscript and they’d have to refuse before you can go somewhere else. I did get them to eliminate the non-compete clause. But changing the contract…yeah, they can do that.”

“Okay. What does that mean in terms of royalties? They wanted to cut those.”

“I ran some numbers,” Sam said. “So, right now you’re earning between ninety cents and two-fifty per book. The amendment would lower that to between sixty cents and two bucks. Obviously with the added title each year, your overall royalty would go up, so your annual royalties might be higher, but you’d have to work harder. How long does it take you to complete a manuscript?”

Dean thought about that. “Between four and six months, depending on how much travel I need to do. If they want three each year, I might have to cut out the travel.” He shook his head, knowing his brother couldn’t see it. “Man, that would suck. That’s part of the fun of writing, you know? If I have to sit myself in an office all day, every day, and be limited to Google Maps for the setting? I might quit.”

“Dean, you know I want what makes you happy. Think about it, okay? I talked to Bobby last night; he’s more than happy to have you come work with him.”

“Yeah.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean took a deep breath. “I’ll think about it. I gotta go. Thanks, Sammy. You’re the best.”

 

The marketing panel was already filling up the largest of the meeting ballrooms in the hotel. Normally when he was attending another author’s reading or panel, he’d sit toward the back. Fewer people paid attention to him, and he could watch everyone in front of him, which was often as entertaining as the author or panel. But this time he wanted to be front and center.

The absolute front and center seat in the audience was reserved for the room monitor, who kept the panel moderator on track with time and made sure the mics were working for the panel recordings to be sold later. Dean left one open seat next to the monitor and sat down, trying to predict which seat Cas would take. Given Cas’ laissez-faire approach, one of the end seats was most likely. But then again, he had a kind of charisma about him that drew people to him, so maybe the center. Either center or end. Dean sat back and waited.

 

It was the middle. Of course it was, with the other panelists looking at Cas like he was a marketing god. The moderator—Meg something—sat on one end and introduced all the panelists, though Dean wasn’t paying attention to names. Meg ran a PR/marketing firm and took on independent authors as clients, she’d said in her introduction, and Dean got the distinct feeling that Cas had been one of her clients at some point. It wasn’t anything he could put a finger on really, just a few looks that Cas gave her. Like he owed her something. It didn’t sit well, and Dean wasn’t sure why.

The panelists debated some topics Dean had heard from Bela: the importance of an email list, online presence, book signings, and of course, convention attendance and networking. Half of which Cas didn’t do. Meg seemed to know that, though, and asked Cas about it point blank.

“CJ,” Meg said with a bit of a smirk, “you have an incredibly successful marketing platform, yet you don’t do personal appearances. Or didn’t until now. How have you made it successful without that in-person aspect, and what changed that brought you here today?”

“Well, you taught me, Meg, to think outside the marketing box. ‘Don’t just give them a workhorse,’ you said. ‘Be a unicorn.’” Cas grinned. “I looked at what every other author was doing and thought about how I could put my own spin on it. What could I do differently? What could I do that was uniquely me? I even asked one of my brothers what made me different. He gave me quite the earful, but,” Cas looked innocently toward the ceiling, “only some of it is repeatable.”

Meg glanced at the papers in front of her before she looked back at Cas. “Most authors or their publishers send out advance reading copies or ARCs a few months before a book comes out. They try to get reviews and endorsements from other authors or well-known public figures. They play up the release on social media. But then they follow it up with giveaways and readings and signings and appearances, if not a book tour. Tell us, CJ, what goes into a marketing plan for one of your books?”

“I do many of those early, pre-publication things,” Cas answered. “I do send out advance copies and I’ve earned the respect of other authors who want to read upcoming titles for possible endorsements. Reviews in the mainstream review media like newspapers and industry journals are harder because they generally don’t review self-published works at all, no matter how much of a following they have.”

Cas paused to take a sip of his water. “But I do a lot of social media. I schedule tweets and Facebook posts and Instagram photos. I go where my fans are on social media. I browse through Tumblr and Reddit. I lurk a lot.” At the laughter from the audience, Cas added, “What? It’s research.”

“How long do you spend on that?”

Blowing out a long breath, Cas considered the question. “Probably six hours a day. I spend another six or eight writing. Also long daily walks in nature helps to generate ideas. And I meditate daily. Probably an hour of that too.” He shrugged. “So that’s a day in the life. Not so exciting. Especially compared to some authors who travel around the country for authenticity in their books’ settings.” Cas met Dean’s gaze and winked.

A warmth bloomed in Dean’s chest, spreading out into his shoulders. At the same time, the thought of spending six hours every day on social media was daunting. And having enough to say on social media to schedule it? A single post on his Facebook author page each week was a lot as far as Dean was concerned.

Meg moved on to another one of the panelists, Marv Simon, who was also published by a big New York house, and who insisted that an author’s job is to set up interesting characters and see where they lead, not publish. “Everybody needs to play their part,” he said. He clearly held Cas in disdain, calling self-publishers ‘wannabe authors’ and ‘writers who weren’t good enough to be published by a real publisher.’

Dean had to fight the urge to defend Cas, even as he recognized his own prejudice of traditionally published authors over self-published ones. Traditional publishing, with its agents and editors and gatekeepers, was how publishing had always been done. Wasn’t it?

The more he listened, the more overwhelmed he felt. Cas had brought handouts—author swag, okay, but _handouts_?—detailing some of his marketing strategies, and when Dean looked over all three pages, his stomach sank. There was just no way. He’d work harder doing this than he would writing a third book each year. That settled it. He was going to sign the contract amendment.


	7. Chapter 7

Finding Bela was harder than Dean thought, considering her love for schmoozing with the publishing elite. She wasn’t at the bar, where it seemed all the important meetings took place, nor was she in the hospitality room. He finally called her mobile phone, asking to meet her in the hotel lobby near a large planter.

Ten minutes later, she was striding toward him, her smile predatory. “So, you’ve come to your senses?” she asked with a friendly shoulder bump.

“I talked to my attorney, yes. And I’ve thought about it. I’m not happy, Bela. You should know that. And if you screw with me again, that may be it for us. But for now, here you go.” He pulled the signed amendment out from his sport coat pocket and handed it to her. She tried to take it, but before he let go of the paper, he raised his eyebrows and added, “Don’t screw with me, Bela.”

“You won’t regret this, sweetheart. I’m already working on getting you your own publicist. I’ll look forward to your next manuscript.” She pivoted on her stiletto heel and sauntered away.

“I’m already regretting it,” Dean said softly.

“Regretting what?” Cas said behind him.

Dean flinched and turned around. “Dude. A little warning.”

“My apologies, Dean. What are you regretting?”

“I signed the amendment.”

Cas canted his head to the side and appraised him. “Why would you do that?”

“I realized, what you said on the panel… I can’t do it, Cas. It’s too big. I need to let my publisher do the marketing, even if it means more work and smaller royalties.”

“I understand. I don’t agree, but I understand.” Cas rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You going to the keynote address?”

“Are you kidding? Chuck Shurley is speaking. Dude’s like a god in the fantasy genre. None of this would be possible without him.”

“Great. Let’s go get a table.”

 

Chuck was a lot shorter in person. Dean had seen photos of him—Chuck was the founder of FAWN and this convention—but somehow he’d expected someone bigger than life. Not a mousy guy with a beard, red hoodie, and faded blue jeans. He turned to Cas when Chuck was first introduced and took the stage and whispered, “Have you met him before?”

Cas shook his head slowly. “I’d like to though.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

They were seated at a large, round table for ten. Several dozen such tables dotted the largest of the ballrooms for the keynote address and lunch was catered for the event, complete with linen napkins and complimentary wine.

Dean recognized several of the other authors at the table and introductions were smooth except for one point when Dean forgot to call Cas ‘CJ.’ “So many names, it’s hard to keep them all straight,” Dean explained.

“Is…uh…is this on?” Chuck said tentatively into the mic as he tapped it. “I guess so. Can you guys hear me? Should I talk louder?”

A chorus of ‘yes’ came from around the room.

Laughing uneasily, Chuck said, “I guess I asked for that. I should limit myself to one question at a time. You guys can hear me, right?”

After another affirmative chorus, Chuck nodded and looked out over the ballroom. “Wow. You know, I never thought when I first said we should get together as fantasy authors and fans that it would have grown and multiplied to this extent. That seems like a long time ago on one hand, and on the other, it seems like yesterday. Time is a funny thing. But you all know that; fantasy plays with space and time.

“I’m not as directly involved with FAWN now, as many of you know. It’s taken on a life of its own and it doesn’t need me to guide and direct it anymore. You guys have stepped up and made it what it is today, and I’m thankful for that, really. You’ve taken a dream of mine and made it reality, every one of you. And I know I’m not supposed to cry at a keynote address, but you guys really make me proud.”

Chuck put his hand over his mouth for a moment and closed his eyes. After a few calming breaths, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I don’t have any prepared comments. I know, you’re not supposed to do that—or _not_ do that—at a keynote either.”

Dean snorted and looked around, seeing everyone watching Chuck with rapt attention.

“But I tend to work better when it just comes to me,” Chuck continued. “Which is both a blessing and a curse. I get some great material, but when you’ve got an editor breathing down your neck, it’s a giant headache too. I really want to talk about one thing today, and that’s where fantasy is going. In my opinion, of course, because I could be wrong. Haven’t been yet, but,” he shrugged, “there’s always a first.

“Fantasy used to be about telling a great story about someplace that wasn’t here. Or wasn’t now. Exciting worlds, parallel universes, alien species. It stretched the imagination, provided an escape, allowed us to dream. But I’m seeing some fantasy authors taking a different direction and, to be honest, it’s even more exhilarating. I’m seeing them taking the adventure within—an adventure within the soul. Instead of sweeping settings and daring plots, I’ve been reading sweeping character arcs and daring choices.”

Chuck rustled in a brown leather messenger bag next to the podium that Dean hadn’t noticed before and pulled out a small white box. “Those of you who’ve been to FAWNcon before know that while each and every one of you are important to me, I also like to give credit where credit’s due. Each year, I pick an author whose work has meant something significant to me, as well as to the genre. This year is no different. And it’s subjective, I know. You all work hard and deserve recognition. But this year I read a book, and then the series it was part of, and I realized that this one deserved special recognition, because it embodies exactly what I was talking about: making the adventure personal.

“While there are still epic battles and supernatural creatures, this series is really a story about friendship and family, about hope and determination, about how the choices we make tell the world who we are.”

Dean felt tears sting his eyes and blinked a few times to clear them. It was maybe a little sappy, but truth be told, this sounded like the kind of series he’d love to read, and his curiosity was piqued.

“It’s about the struggle to accept and love ourselves,” Chuck continued, “even in the midst of failure and pain. So I want to present this token of my appreciation and recognition to the author of this remarkable series. Dean Winchester, would you come up please?”

A flash of heat and an electric charge shot through Dean’s body. Chuck must have gotten it wrong. There was an odd ringing in his ears and he had the sense that people were talking to him but he couldn’t hear.

“Dean.”

That voice was familiar. Calming.

“Dean.” He felt a warm hand over his again. “Do you need help?”

Managing a swallow, Dean took a shaky breath and tried to reorient himself. “I’m…I’m okay. I think.” He stood slowly, Cas’ hand moving to his forearm just in case.

He was barely aware of walking to the dais, climbing the four steps up, but when Chuck shook his hand, he felt a little more at ease.

“You okay, Dean?” Chuck asked softly enough that the mic didn’t pick it up.

“I think so.” Dean tried for a grin, unsure whether if it was more smile or grimace.

“Okay.” Chuck’s face seemed to be equal parts admiration and concern. He turned back to the podium. “You all won’t be able to see it from where you are,” he said into the mic, “but I’m giving Dean a bronze pendant, modeled after an ancient Zoroastrian god who was a protector of the righteous.” He took the top off the box and showed it to Dean, then returned to the mic. “This is to remind him that the greatest battle of all is within ourselves, to choose good or evil, love or hate, life or death. Congratulations, Dean.”

Chuck handed him the box, shook his hand again, and gestured to the steps while patting him on the shoulder with his other hand. “You’re gonna do great things, Dean,” he said quietly. “You already have.”

 

When Dean reached his table and sat down, he was trembling. “That was not what I expected.”

“You did say you wanted to meet him,” Cas said.

“Be careful what you ask for, right?” Moving his bread plate, Dean set the box down next to his plate of chicken and something that looked rubbery and green.

Cas raised his eyebrows. “Good things do happen, Dean.” He nodded to the box. “Show me the pendant?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Dean opened it up, looking at it more closely. It looked almost like a demon face, with horns pointed up, a large nose, and some sort of swirl on its forehead. He took it out and held it, the metal oddly warm in his hand. It was solid and heavy, attached to a leather cord. Holding it out, he let Cas take it and examine it closely.

“I think it’s old,” Cas said, still looking carefully at the pendant. “This isn’t a cheap knockoff. It might actually be an amulet, not just a pendant.” He handed it back. “You should keep it safe.”

“Can’t get much safer than this,” Dean said as he hung it around his neck.

His attention returned to Chuck as FAWN’s founder closed his keynote by saying, “Thank you all. See you around and enjoy your lunch.”

Leaning close, Cas asked, “You still hungry?”

“Not really. Why? You thinking of something else? Another walk?”

Cas worried his lower lip between his teeth before speaking. “I have a whirlpool suite. Three-person whirlpool in the room. I’ve been really wanting to try it out.”

A pleasant tingling spread through Dean’s extremities until… “I don’t have any swim trunks,” he said.

“I have some you can use. If you feel you need them. But honest truth, Dean, I’m just thinking a hot soak with massaging jets. I’m not going to pressure you into anything.”

Dean could feel his lips turning up in a smile before he fully connected it with wanting to accept. “Yeah, Cas. Lead the way.”


	8. Chapter 8

Dean was half-expecting a bathtub with jets, but Cas wasn’t kidding. There was a triangular whirlpool immediately to the left, past the bathroom, with a waterfall faucet. Beyond it was a king-sized bed, and in the far left corner, an electric fireplace.

“A whirlpool _and_ a fireplace?” Dean whistled low. “Son of a bitch. My publisher’s been holding out on me.”

Cas laughed and Dean wanted to hear that more often. “If I was going to come to a convention, I figured I would do it right,” Cas explained. “And in case you were less than happy to meet me, I could hide out here.”

“You booked this as part of your Plan B?”

“If Plan B involves wallowing in rejection, yes.”

“What would you have done if you’d gone through the whole finding an agent process, getting dozens or hundreds of rejection letters?” Dean asked.

Cas went over to the short dresser across from the bed and opened a drawer. “Wallpapered my bathroom with them, so I could be reminded of my failures in the appropriate location.” He pulled out a pair of navy blue swim trunks and handed them to Dean. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t take rejection or failure well. And I know that acquisitions editors make subjective decisions based on interest and marketability. Self-publishing was a way to bypass that. I knew I wanted to make the first book a success, and I was confident I could fare better on my own.”

“You did that,” Dean said. “I’ll just go change in the bathroom.”

By the time he came out, Cas was adjusting the water in the whirlpool, dressed only in a pair of orange boxers. Dean didn’t feel particularly embarrassed; he knew he looked good, barring a bit of softness on his belly that he was still trying to work off. But there was an intimacy to this moment that wasn’t like being in the locker room at the gym, and he fought the momentary impulse to cover himself.

It helped to admire Cas bent over the whirlpool’s edge, his hand alternately feeling the water and fiddling with the faucet handles. Cas did not have the type of body Dean would have expected from someone who spent twelve to fourteen hours a day on the computer. He was lean and tan, with defined muscles in his back and arms that indicated some sort of rigorous exercise. His legs too were toned and corded. Runner’s legs, Dean thought, or maybe cycling.

“You work out?” Dean asked, hoping that it wasn’t too intrusive. “Beyond nature walks?”

Cas stood up and Dean absolutely did not glance at his crotch. “Not as much now,” Cas said. “I have a black belt in _kenjutsu_.” At Dean’s blank look, he added, “Samurai swordsmanship.”

“Wait, so you’re like a ninja? No wonder you keep sneaking up on me.”

“Not a ninja. They have their own techniques. But _kenjutsu_  does date back to the samurai.”

Dean shook his head in awe. “Note to self: do not get on Cas’ bad side, and keep him away from knives.”

“I’m trained in both long and short swords,” Cas said with a hint of a smile. “And I know my way around most anything with a blade.”

“That’s it, then,” Dean pronounced. “No more knives for you. I’ll have to cut up all your food.”

Cas inclined his head to the side with a fond expression before Dean realized the implications of what he’d said.

“I just meant…” he started.

“I know what you meant, Dean. It’s endearing.” He checked the water again and stepped in. “Come on in. It’s quite comfortable.”

 

It might have been the heat. Or the water. Or even the bubbles and water jets. An unfamiliar feeling slowly curled and wrapped itself through Dean’s body, like ivy growing on a trellis, tingling and buzzing as if he’d had too much caffeine. A giddiness bubbled up as well, a lightness in his chest that prompted smiles and laughter without fully knowing what he was happy about.

He leaned his head back against the wall. “This is nice. I don’t think I’ve felt this relaxed in a long time.”

“I’m glad.” Cas stood and made his way over.

Dean noticed a spattering of freckles on Cas’ stomach, with one particularly large freckle or mole just above his right nipple. He forced his gaze back up to Cas’ face, whose eyes reflected flashes of light from the bubbling water.

“Stand for a moment,” Cas directed, then sat where Dean had been. “Come, sit,” he said, indicating a spot between his legs.

Dean felt that tingling and buzzing intensify as if he was on fire from within. Carefully, he settled between Cas’ thighs, then felt Cas’ long, graceful fingers dig into his shoulders and neck. Dean groaned as Cas worked out a knot. “You’re a lot stronger than you look. Is that your samurai training too?”

Cas huffed out a short laugh. “No.”

Groaning again, Dean could feel Cas using both hands to manually stretch the muscles in his upper back and along the sides of his neck. “You should do this professionally.”

“I did, for a while.”

Dean twisted around to look at Cas. “You’re kidding, right?”

Turning Dean back around to face away again, Cas continued his work. “I am not. I find the human body to be captivating. And training as a massage therapist was considerably more attainable than earning a medical degree. I supported myself doing massage therapy while I was working on my first couple of books, before I could write full time.”

Breathing into the part-pain, part-relief, Dean closed his eyes and allowed his body to loosen. “Hey, uh… You said, back at breakfast, there were things about you I didn’t know.”

Fingers stilled for a few moments, then resumed. “It’s a long story that I can go into in more depth with copious quantities of alcohol. But the short version is that my mother and older brother—Michael, the one in air force intelligence—are looking for me. Perhaps ‘hunting me’ is a better term.”

“Why? What happened?”

“My family is…a high profile family. Paparazzi, news outlets, tabloid gossip. They’re obsessed with their public image.”

“What, like movie stars? Show biz?” Dean asked.

“More like politics.” Cas’ tone sounded melancholy as he continued the massage. “There was a party for my high school graduation and a reporter attended and interviewed me about Anna’s death and the pressures faced by teens in the public eye. I told her what I knew, what I thought, what I’d witnessed, and none of it was anything my family wanted to be public knowledge. The story was picked up by national news and spread from there. My family has been after me to make a retraction, to ‘set the record straight’ and conform to their idea of what happened. Which is to say, she was sick and weak and it had nothing to do with the family.”

“Man, that sucks.” Dean couldn’t quite imagine how that must have felt. “So I get why you don’t do photos. But won’t they find you from your last name?”

“Novak isn’t my family’s name. I was bored one day and looked up my genealogy. I found some distant cousins on my father’s side, Russian-Czechoslovakian Jews who were forced into hiding as Christians and took on the surname Novak, which means ‘newcomer’ or ‘stranger.’ It seemed quite fitting, and I’m certain neither my mother nor my brother would ever figure it out. For one thing, they refuse to believe we have Jewish roots.”

Cas stopped the massage and rested his arms on the edge of the whirlpool. “Anyway, that’s why I don’t do photos or much in the way of appearances.”

“Yeah, but Cas, I’m sure people took photos of the panels here. Isn’t that a risk?”

“It is. But it’s worth it.”

Dean felt fingers running lightly through his hair and twisted around again. “Your turn. I’m no massage therapist, but I’ve got strong hands.”

They switched places and Dean felt a momentary hesitation before he put his hands on Cas’ broad shoulders. Okay, this wasn’t too weird. He’d given Sam shoulder rubs before, worked out tight muscles after the kid had spent all night reading hundreds of pages of cases for law school. He fell back into the rhythm, his fingers and thumbs finding areas of tightness. But Cas was making sounds that Sam never did, or at least Dean didn’t remember groans and sighs that went straight to his groin.

He tried focusing on the expanse of skin in front of him, looking for any matching freckles on Cas’ back, and began tracing patterns along the muscles of his shoulder blades. “Did you know your muscles, the indentations between them, they kind of look like wings?”

Cas rolled his shoulders. “I didn’t. Life imitates art?”

Chuckling, Dean cupped some water in his hands and dribbled it over Cas’ shoulders before moving on to massage Cas’ neck, his thumbs rubbing small circles at the base of Cas’ hairline. He had to hold himself back, feeling an inexplicable urge to hug the man in front of him, to bury his face in Cas’ hair, to kiss his neck. He tried shaking himself out of it. This was a guy he’d known for just over twenty-four hours. Yeah, he might go home with someone who could promise a night to let off some steam, but this wasn’t like that. He was already thinking of Cas as a friend, albeit a friend with whom he’d like to get a little handsy.

“Dean?” Cas turned halfway to look at him, concern on his face.

“Yeah?” Dean dropped his hands, feeling a sudden loss of connection.

“Are you all right? Your breathing became erratic.”

Dean took a long breath in and let it out slowly. “Yeah. I just…um…” He bit his bottom lip nervously, not sure what to say.

Cas stood, turned, and straddled Dean’s thighs in a single fluid movement. “You what?”

“I…” He watched Cas lick his lips, mesmerized by the tip of pink tongue darting out. Without thinking, he moved one hand to the back of Cas’ head, burying his fingers in thick hair and pulling him closer, slowly, giving Cas a chance to back out, or stop him if he was misreading everything.

The kiss was barely there at first, a hint of static electricity as their lips touched, then warm and full of need. Dean wanted to taste it all, bury himself in this feeling of being admired, cherished. He licked at Cas’ lips, then his tongue, relishing the slow dance as they slid together, each of them wanting to give rather than take. Cas shifted a little, and an explosion of _need_ raced through Dean’s body at the pressure against his erection. He groaned into Cas’ mouth, his hands grabbing and clenching, pulling Cas closer.

When they paused for breath, Cas rested his forehead against Dean’s. “I don’t know about you,” Cas panted, “but I’d vote for moving this to the bed.”

Dean sought Cas’ lips again, not ready to move quite yet. He pushed his hips up into Cas, rolling them a little, the heat and bubbles nearly overwhelming him as they surrounded him. “Okay,” he said, darting in for one more kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

The air was chilly on Dean’s wet skin as he stripped off his borrowed swim trunks and threw them over the rim of the whirlpool. An inner heat was keeping him from getting too cold, but he couldn’t wait for skin-on-skin contact again. He watched Cas peel off his boxers, giving him his first look at an impressive erection that left him feeling equal parts aroused and scared. Ignoring what might go where, he crossed the space between them, taking Cas’ face in both hands as he kissed him again. The waves of heat coming off of Cas’ body was a stark contrast to the wet coolness he felt on his back.

Dean kept kissing Cas, his lips and tongue running over sandpaper stubble, the roughness of it adding to all the sensations he was filing away. He found the soft spot beneath Cas’ ear, vaguely aware that his feet were moving to stay in Cas’ arms, and nuzzled at Cas’ earlobe, his own breath coming in short gasps. A shudder went through him as Cas grazed his teeth over where his neck met his shoulder, just sharp enough to scrape, and his shoulder clenched involuntarily. Something solid behind his knees brought him up short, and he fell back against it, sitting down on the bed as Cas climbed on, straddling his thighs. He scooted backwards, bracing himself with one hand, not wanting to break contact or remove his other hand from Cas’ hair.

Unaware of how he was laying on the bed, he pulled Cas down on top of him, relishing the heat and solidity pressing down on him. Cas nipped at his neck and he tried to hold back a moan.

“None of that, Dean. I want to hear it all,” Cas growled in his ear.

Pulling away, Cas trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses over Dean’s chest, circling one nipple before finally pulling it into his mouth and sucking on it, his tongue and teeth teasing it until it hardened. He pulled off and blew on it, causing Dean to arch his back, dragging another moan from him. Cas gave the same attention to the other one, and Dean wasn’t sure he could handle this going on much longer.

Cas continued to work his way down Dean’s torso, his fingers finding spots on Dean’s sides that kept shooting jolts of pleasure through him. Dean couldn’t help but grab the bed covers in his fists as Cas barely bypassed his groin, body heat and wet hair ghosting over his cock before moving down his legs. Dean felt Cas kiss, nibble, and massage all the way down to his feet, and feeling Cas kissing his toes while he lay there, naked and hard and leaking, brought a sense of being exposed and vulnerable.

“You’re beautiful like this, Dean,” Cas said, slowly crawling back up his body. “Your soul shone through your words, your books. And seeing you in person,” he licked the head of Dean’s cock, causing Dean to arch off the bed again, “in the flesh, you’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“Cas…” Dean groaned.

In a swift movement, Cas swallowed him down and Dean nearly came with the sudden, overwhelming sensations, buried in wet heat and a tongue that seemed to have acrobatic skills as it folded and wrapped itself around him. Dean could feel pressure building in his lower abdomen, his body tensing and moving without conscious thought. Then it was cold again as Cas released him and moved up.

Dean grabbed Cas’ hair and yanked him down, not sure exactly what he wanted beyond _more_. Using one foot for leverage, he flipped them so he was on top, his forearms framing Cas’ face. This was more familiar; he could work with this.

He set about trying to coax as many sounds as possible out of Cas, using his lips, tongue, teeth, nails, and skin. Growling, he bit at the base of Cas’ throat, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave marks, earning him a strangled groan, then sucked a hickey there. Moving down, he nipped at shoulders, upper chest, then used his nails to slowly draw a shrinking spiral around one pec, getting closer and closer to Cas’ nipple, before flicking it with his finger. Cas gasped and shuddered, and Dean attacked the nub with his tongue and teeth while performing the spiral around the other, causing Cas to mewl and then cry out when Dean flicked both tips repeatedly without mercy.

Grinning, he mapped out Cas’ stomach and sides, finding a likely ticklish spot he’d have to exploit later. He could smell Cas’ musk, an earthy, grassy scent with a hint of…cinnamon? Wanting to give Cas the same sort of pleasure he’d received, Dean tried to rationalize himself out of his anxiety. It was just a dick. A veiny, purplish, very erect dick. He closed his eyes and stuck out the tip of his tongue until he could just taste Cas’ pre-come, the salty liquid sending weird sensations down the sides of his tongue.

He tried again, licking the entire cockhead, feeling its velvety texture and spongy give as Cas whimpered. It was now or never, and Dean was not a quitter. Hoping that his teeth were shielded properly, he took Cas’ length into his mouth, pretending for a moment that it was a strange-tasting corndog as he massaged the underside with his tongue, then pulled back enough to swipe his tongue in a full circle around it before descending once again.

Cas seemed to have lost most of his self-control, thrashing his arms against the bed covers, then jerking his hips up, causing Dean’s gag reflex to kick in. Dean pulled off quickly as he coughed, his eyes watering.

Cas sat partway up, threw his arms around Dean, and pulled him up, moving so their erections rubbed together, and causing Dean to throw his head back and try to keep from coming right then. Cas was doing something else with his hands, but Dean couldn’t spare any thoughts about it as wave after wave of pleasure washed through him.

He felt Cas pull away just a bit, then grasp both their cocks in one hand. One very slick, slightly cool hand. The extra lube intensified every sensation, and as Dean lost himself to them, he felt a cool, wet finger trace down his crack and rub small circles at his hole. He tensed for a moment. He’d done this for a few women he’d been with, and they seemed to like it, but he never once expected to be on the receiving end. The waves of _good_ and _yes_ and _more_ seemed to triple with that added finger, and he tentatively pushed back into it, feeling it breech him slowly.

His body didn’t seem to want to stop rocking then, into Cas’ fist and back onto his finger, which gradually pushed deeper. Cas did something with this hand, then, turning it somehow, and Dean felt a near detonation go off, sending shockwaves of pure ecstasy through his body as he came between them. He tried to catch his breath, feeling almost numb at first and then overly sensitive as Cas thrust a couple more times and groaned with a full-body shudder, spilling warm liquid to mix with Dean’s.

Dean tried to kiss Cas again, but wasn’t entirely sure where Cas’ mouth was. He managed a few sloppy kisses on Cas’ cheek and chin, then rested his weight on Cas. A black-belt samurai ought to be able to take that.

In an entirely too-short period of time, and despite their combined body heat, the mess between them cooled and grew increasingly uncomfortable. Dean rolled off, hoping he wouldn’t fall off the bed. He took a few extra moments to get his bearings.

“That was…uh…” Dean began.

“Mind-blowing,” Cas supplied.

“Yeah. I’ve slept with chicks before, but that? That was something else.”

Cas sat up, frowning at the mess on his stomach. “I’ll get us washcloths.” He stood and made his way into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later and handing one of two wet washcloths to Dean. Taking it, Dean smiled at the glorious warmth from the wet cloth before he wiped himself down. He followed Cas’ lead and threw the used cloth over to the whirlpool.

Cas pulled the covers of the bed back, then climbed in, motioning Dean to do the same. As Dean got comfortable next to Cas and snuggled into the warmth, two thoughts crowded out every other and sent sudden adrenaline through his body: he was cuddling, and he’d just slept with a guy.


	10. Chapter 10

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Cas asked, sounding concerned.

Dean fought to hold his emotions in check. He fought to steady his breathing, to relax his now-tense muscles. Somehow, fighting and relaxing at the same time weren’t working.

“Dean.”

He felt fingers on his chin, lifting his face, though he wasn’t registering anything visual. There was just gray and a mantra of _what have I done?_

“Okay, it’s going to be okay. Breathe with me. In…” Cas gathered him in his arms and Dean could feel Cas’ chest expand. “Out.”

Dean tried to match the motions, grateful for the guidance, and struggling with each breath.

“Breathe in, Dean,” Cas guided. “And out. Good. In again. That’s it. Now out. You’re safe, Dean. You’re okay.”

Gradually, Dean was able to gain more control over his breathing, making it through both inhalation and exhalation without stuttering. His vision cleared to see dark blue pools of worry. He tried a smile.

Cas released him from the embrace but kept his hands on his upper arms.

“Sorry,” Dean managed to say.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. You had a panic attack.”

“Samurai sword-fighting teach you how to coach people through panic attacks?”

A corner of Cas’ mouth twisted up in a sad smile. “No. Having two siblings dealing with mental health issues in a fucked-up family taught me that. And before you even think it, do _not_ apologize for bringing that up.”

Dean nodded. “I thought it, but I won’t say it.”

“Good.” Cas appraised him. “You want to talk about it? I’m fairly certain it had something to do with me, or with what we just did.”

“I’m…not really very good at the whole talking about feelings bit. Sorry I freaked out on you.” Dean shifted to make more space between himself and Cas.

“This was your first time with a man, wasn’t it?”

“I…uh…” Dean rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“What is your body telling you about that experience?” Cas asked. “Not your thoughts or your judgments. Just your physical feelings.”

“That it was all kinds of awesome.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Cas leaned up on one arm. “And what are the judgments, the thoughts that keep you from accepting this as ‘all kinds of awesome’?”

“I grew up—and still live—in eastern Kansas. Bible belt. I don’t know what I am, but gay’s not an option.” Dean sighed, still staring at the ceiling. “I know, it’s not a very glamorous place to live. My brother Sam and his wife are attorneys in Kansas City. They have a three-year-old. Gabriel.”

Cas chuckled. “Another angel.”

“Yeah, well, Gabe’s anything but that. Little terror might be more appropriate. Most of what I make from royalties goes to pay off Sam’s law school student loans. He earned a free ride to Stanford for pre-law, but law school was a whole other ballgame. Financed, it cost three-hundred-fifteen thousand, six-hundred and four dollars. I’ve got it memorized. Sam and Jess are paying off her loans, plus trying to get Sam’s law practice going, and child care, of course. I live in a crappy studio apartment. I look successful on paper, Cas, but in reality…”

“Dean, look at me.”

“What?” Dean turned his head but kept his eyes trained across the room.

“Look at me.”

“I know what you’re gonna say, Cas, and I’m sorry I led you on. You deserve better. I’ll let myself out.” He started to climb out of bed, but Cas’ firm grip on his wrist stopped him.

“You don’t know what I’m going to say, Dean.” Cas let his wrist go. “Now look at me.”

Dean sat on the bed and forced himself to look Cas in the eyes.

“Your state of residence does not define you. Your current lodging does not define you. No one else defines you. What I said earlier was not just in the throes of passion. Your soul is beautiful. You are beautiful. And as far as success… You changed my life, Dean. I am a different person because of you. I have a future I never could have imagined because of you. And who knows how many other lives you’ve changed. Successful? You’re successful beyond measure.”

Swallowing hard, Dean lowered his gaze, trying to take it all in.

“And there is nothing wrong with being bisexual,” Cas continued softly. “Or asexual. Or pansexual, which my brother Bal is.”

“Cookware turns him on?” Dean joked, still not comfortable with what Cas was saying.

Cas tipped his head to the side before giving him an affectionate smile. “He _is_ kind of a pothead.”

Laughter escaped before Dean could stop it. “You’re a dork.”

“Does that mean you’ll stay and not leave me to wallow in my very large and increasingly cold bed?”

“Yeah.” Dean slid back under the covers. So what if he was going to cuddle? Cuddling was damn nice. “Can’t have you getting cold now.”

Before Dean could make a decision about who was going to take what position, Cas pulled him close and manhandled him into the little spoon. This time, Dean figured, it was okay. Cas would take care of him.

 

When Dean awoke, it was dark beyond the sheer curtains across the window. He was comfortably warm and felt Cas breathing against the back of his neck. A momentary _What the hell am I doing?_ flashed through his mind and he took a deep breath, focusing on how he felt when he was around Cas.

The guy might have gone to a lot of trouble—even risked a lot—to meet him, and under other circumstances, that would be a hell of a lot of creepy. But Dean couldn’t deny the attraction was mutual. And while Cas might be ready to write poetry about Dean’s soul, his own wasn’t too shabby either. Despite the short time they’d known each other, this was a friendship Dean already knew he wanted to keep. And maybe they could work out something more.

Before he could ponder that any farther, Dean’s stomach growled and Cas huffed a laugh into his hair.

“Hungry?” Cas asked, his voice even more gravelly with sleep.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to move.”

“Me either. Let’s order room service. What time is it?”

Dean sat up a bit, looking at the clock on the nightstand. “Almost seven.”

“I think we missed that panel on cover art. My artist was going to be there.”

“Sorry,” Dean said.

“Don’t be. This was a far better use of my time. She and I have talked on the phone, and she didn’t know I was coming here.” Cas placed a kiss to Dean’s head, then rolled away, climbing out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

Dean took the opportunity to find the room service menu, and after choking on the prices, decided their burger didn’t sound too bad. And bonus: they offered apple pie a la mode.

 

* * *

 

Bellies full and sated, they sat on the bed, curled into each other. The electric fireplace was doing an impressive job of mimicking an actual fire—minus the heat—and Dean was flipping through channels on the hotel’s TV, looking for a good movie to watch.

“Hey, they’re running a _Die Hard_ marathon. Which ones have you seen, Cas?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve seen any of them.”

“Dude. How can you own social media and not have seen _Die Hard_? Well, we’re fixing that right now.”

Cas chuckled and rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, watching the screen.

As the opening scene began to play, Dean memorized everything about this. How Cas’ hair felt against his cheek, Cas’ long fingers loosely intertwined with his, their shared body heat, and how utterly, completely accepted Dean felt. He never wanted to let this go.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean woke to hair tickling his nose. Cas was curled into his chest, nose smooshed against Dean’s neck, making snuffling noises as he breathed. He would stay and enjoy this longer if he could, but his bladder was making itself known, and was not one for patience.

Slowly, Dean tried to extricate himself from Cas’ embrace, only to have the other man pull him even closer. “Cas,” he said. “Hey, buddy, I’ll come back. But I really need the bathroom.”

“No.” Cas’ answer was mumbled against Dean’s skin.

“Yeah, really. Otherwise it’s going to be very uncomfortable for both of us.”

Sighing deeply, Cas let go. “Fine. You have two minutes.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Four and I’ll brush my teeth,” Dean countered.

Cas opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain, Dean.”

“Just one of my specialties,” Dean said with a wink before he sauntered to the bathroom.

 

Breakfast was room service again. Dean didn’t want to think about how much the hotel bill was going to be, and resolved to pay Cas for half of the meals, submitting the expenses to his publisher. The rest, he was pretty sure, could be a tax write-off.

As Dean made his way through waffles and bacon and eggs, and Cas toyed with a bowl of fruit and a cup of plain yogurt, Dean thought about bringing up the one topic they hadn’t yet broached.

“Do you have plans for the rest of the convention?” Cas asked.

“No. There were a couple of panels this morning, but nothing I need to be at. Most people I know are heading out for the airport around lunchtime.”

“Mmm. And what time is your flight?”

_That. That was the topic_. Dean let out a long breath and set down his fork. “My flight leaves at three, so I’ll need to head to the airport by one. What about you?”

“Two forty-five to Seattle. Then a two-hour drive back to Bal’s place.”

“Well, great. We can head out together. What airline you flying? I’m on Delta.”

“Same. We’ll have some extra time together.”

“Cas…?”

“I know, Dean. I’ve been thinking about it too.” Cas speared a chunk of pineapple, stared at it as if it had personally offended him, then nibbled at it.

“I told you I wasn’t good relationship material.” Dean thought he could feel his heart cracking, threatening to break.

“I disagree,” Cas said. “I think you’re excellent relationship material. We just have a few obstacles to conquer.”

“If you call living two thousand miles away from each other a mere obstacle.”

“You have overcome far bigger obstacles, Dean. This?” Cas motioned between them. “If we both want it, and I do, we’ll make it work.”

Dean nodded, not wanting to think about spending that very night in an otherwise empty bed in a cramped apartment. “I want it too.”

“Good.” Cas devoured the rest of the pineapple chunk and stabbed a cantaloupe cube with his fork. “Then we make a plan.”

 

* * *

 

Dean had to admit, as he groggily made his way through the Kansas City airport toward baggage claim, the most exciting part of a new writing project was starting it. The potential, the planning, the possibilities. He and Cas had traded all their contact information, Dean adding Cas’ selfie to the contact profile and giving Cas a selfie in return, with a plan to talk via Skype that night, laying the groundwork for their first crossover novel.

There was still Dean’s current novel-in-progress to finish for Bela, and based on the contract changes, another one due before the end of the calendar year. How he was going to write one and a half novels in six months and co-write a third was beyond him, but with Cas cheering him on, he felt like he could take on anything the universe decided to throw at him.

Barely glancing at the signs for which carousel his luggage would be at, Dean scanned the crowds and spotted his brother quickly, a full head taller than nearly anyone else. It helped, also, that Gabe was riding on his father’s shoulders, apparently trying to touch a nearby monitor, perhaps thinking it was a touchscreen. He strode forward, eager to embrace both of them.

“Dean!” Sam called, a giant smile lighting up his face.

“Heya, Sammy.” Dean looked up. “Gabe. You behaving yourself, kiddo?”

“Nuh uh, Unca Dean.” Gabe’s look was somber. “Behave is what you do when you bad. I'm good.”

Dean raised his eyebrows to his brother.

“I might have promised him I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M if he stayed with me and kept his voice down.”

“Yeah! Ice keem!” Gabe yelled. “With spinkuhs.”

“That spelling thing is really working out for you, Sam.”

Sam gave him a long-suffering sigh. “Tell me about it.”

 

Once in Sam’s Prius, an abomination to everyone with any taste whatsoever, though at least it was black, Sam started in with the expected third degree. How was it? Did you have fun? Sell any books? And the inevitable, “Did you sign the amendment?”

“Yeah. I did. I went to a panel on marketing. Someone I met there was on it, and I went to be supportive, but I wound up learning enough to know that writing another book a year was going to be less work than trying to market myself.”

“Someone you met?”

Of course that’s what Sam would home in on. “Yes, someone I met. Another author.”

“And did you spend the night with this other author?” Sam persisted.

“I’m not gonna answer that.”

“Dean!” Sam laughed as he took the onramp to Interstate 435. “You got a phone number? Plans to meet up again? Maybe do some book research in her hometown?”

“I do have a phone number,” Dean said slowly. He had to trust that he knew his brother well enough not to judge. “And he’s a guy.”

Sam was silent for half a beat before resting his hand briefly on Dean’s shoulder. “Good for you, Dean. I wasn’t sure you’d ever accept that part of yourself.”

“You knew?”

Sam snorted. “Since I was in, like, fifth grade. So what’s his name? What does he write? How’d you meet?”

Dean leaned his head back against the headrest, feeling a post-flight headache coming on. “His name’s Cas. He writes as CJ Novak.”

“Wait. The author of the angel books?”

“How do you know about that?” Dean asked.

Rolling his eyes, Sam shook his head. “Dean, you’re a bestselling fantasy author. Of course I’m going to check out the competition. I even read his third book, _The Clarion’s Prophesy_. It centered around the archangel Gabriel. It was really good.”

“Gabee-el!” Gabe shouted from the back seat.

“Yes, Gabe. There was a book with a character who has the same name as you.”

“Ice keem! Spinkuhs!”

“In about half an hour, when we get to Lawrence, Gabe,” Sam answered, glancing in the rearview mirror. “At least his hearing’s working fine,” he said in an aside to Dean. “So…you and…Cas, is it? Is this a working relationship with benefits, or something more?”

“I think this could be something more, Sam. I really hope so. We’re gonna talk tonight about doing a crossover novel. He said he’s going to publish it.”

Sam grimaced. “That might be a problem, Dean. Contractually.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that right of first refusal clause in your contract. That means any book you write—anything to be published—has to be submitted to them first and they’d have to reject it before you can take it somewhere else.”

“Yeah, but this wouldn’t be just my work. It’d be me and Cas as co-authors.”

Shaking his head, Sam said, “Doesn’t matter. You can’t publish any book unless they’ve seen it first.”

“Well, damn. I don’t think Cas wants to get dragged into the traditional publishing world.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “There might be a way around it.”

“Yeah?”

“Be a silent author. Work with him on it, but go uncredited. Your publisher can’t sue you for what you don’t claim.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? I’ll talk with Cas about it, see what he wants to do. Right now I’m just interested in writing with him. Maybe we can work the publication details out later.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “No point worrying about publishing contracts when it’s not even written yet.”

They continued on the drive to Lawrence talking about more banal topics: Sam’s growing practice, a possible promotion for Jess, and looking into pre-kindergarten programs for Gabe. Partway through the trip, Dean’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out as Sam chatted on about some case he’d won, and glanced at the screen, then smiled and unlocked it.

 

from:            CJ Novak <cj@cjnovak.com>  
to:                Dean <dean@winchester.com>  
date:             Sun, May 7, 2017 at 5:01 PM  
subject:        Hello from 36,000 feet

Hello, Dean.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. While I’m prohibited from texting on the airplane, wifi allows me to send email. I’m looking forward to our Skype call tonight. In case it occurs to you, do _not_ clean your apartment or move items out of the background to give me a false sense of how you live. I sleep on a couch. I’m not offended by anything you could possibly have in your apartment. Except another lover. I might have to draw the line at that.

I’ve already been thinking about our novel. As you know, each of my novels features a single angel. I’ve been battling with one storyline regarding Raphael, but no matter what I do with it, I can’t get it right. Perhaps this is the one we can work together on? If you have other ideas, I’m eager to hear them.

It also occurs to me that we have your publishing contract to contend with. I’m not sure if they will approve of us writing together, but I have a few ideas that might protect you. We can talk about them more in depth tonight. Perhaps your brother will weigh in as well.

My flight is scheduled to land on time, so I should be at Bal’s by eight-thirty my time or ten-thirty your time. If that’s too late for you, let me know. We can keep it short for tonight. Flight doesn’t tire me out, but I know it does have that effect on others.

You are the best thing to happen to me, and I can never thank you enough for this weekend.

Cas

 

“Dean.”

Looking up from his phone, Dean realized Sam had been trying to get his attention for a while. “Yeah?”

“That from your new boyfriend?”

Dean started to retort, but the thought of Cas as his _boyfriend_ actually felt…pretty good. “Yeah,” he finally said.

“Oh, man,” Sam said with a laugh. “You’ve got it bad.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean settled on his bed with his laptop resting on his thighs. He was already dressed in sleep pants and a soft t-shirt, a tumbler of whiskey on the bedside table. His hands were shaky, like he was about to address a roomful of people, and he reminded himself of just that morning in Cas’ arms. After launching the Skype app, he browsed through the weekend’s collection of email, including an admonition from Crowley for not attending his Friday evening cocktails. When the app’s sound indicated Cas was calling, Dean quickly connected the call, feeling like a nervous teen.

“Hey Cas,” he said.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas was sitting on a lumpy brown sofa, several folded blankets stacked behind him on the sofa back. The walls were a nondescript white. “How was your trip home?”

“Good. Thanks for the email. Sammy drove me home since I had to take a pharmacy’s worth of medicine to deal with flying. He brought Gabe, which always makes for an interesting time. And…uh…I told him. About us.” Dean took a swallow of whiskey.

“Oh?” There was a lot of bouncing on Cas’ end, like he was folding his legs under him. “How did that go?”

“It was a non-issue for him. Which is a relief, actually. Just nice to have it out in the open, you know?”

“I’m glad, Dean. So, I’m being mindful of time. Do you know what your book contract says about you publishing another book with someone else? Or self-publishing?”

“Yeah, Sam was telling me about that earlier.” Dean repeated what Sam had said, including his thought about being a silent author.

“I belong to a group of independent publishers,” Cas said. “That’s where I first met Charlie. Let me talk to some of the people I trust and see what they have to say. Obviously I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize your status with your publisher. Is that agreeable?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Cas reached forward, then sat back with a spiral notebook in his hand. “I’m going to take some notes. These won’t leave my possession.”

“It’s okay, Cas. I trust you.”

Dean watched as Cas jotted down notes about his contract, about what to ask regarding the right to first refusal clause. “Some of the members of this organization are attorneys who specialize in publishing,” Cas said. “Would you be amenable to my asking them about this? I’ll keep your name out of it, of course.”

Shrugging, Dean nodded. “Sam’s been doing a little bit of everything, so he probably wouldn’t mind having the opinions of more experienced attorneys on this.”

“Okay.” Cas looked at the screen and gave him a small smile. “Now that that’s out of the way, can we talk a little about the book? I’m excited to share this with you.”

“I’m looking forward to it too. I don’t know much about angels, but I completely understand battling a manuscript. Sometimes it just takes a different perspective. Tell me more about Raphael.”

Cas tipped his head back and closed his eyes, a smile playing around his mouth. It looked like he had just settled into his element. “Biblically, every angel has a particular strength or focus. Often, it shows up in their names, especially if they’re in Hebrew, though some of the newer angels—the ones that exist in Christianity but not Judaism—have meaningful names in Latin. I wanted to turn that on its head, question the assumption that angels are always helpful. What if they mean well but make mistakes? What if their goals put humanity in harm’s way? That kind of thing.”

“I like it. Go on.”

“Raphael is the angel of healing. Literally, that’s what the name translates to: God is my healing. I was thinking, what if he was hurting others instead? But that’s where I got stuck. How would anyone know that the harm was angelic and not human-caused? Especially if your characters are involved.”

Dean thought about that for a moment while he took another sip of whiskey. “Well, Tristan and Ross don’t just investigate monsters. Anything really out of the ordinary would get their attention. What if you kept his original focus or purpose or whatever but kept it to one geographic location? An excess of miraculous healings in one town, maybe?”

“I have the town already,” Cas said, flipping through the pages of his spiral notebook. “Waterville, Maine. I came across this photo of the Colby College library in Waterville and it just... Here… I’m emailing you the photo…” Cas tapped for a few moments, his eyes downcast. “There. I had this idea that the final showdown would happen in front of this building. I don’t know why I like it so much, but it called to me.”

As soon as the laptop beeped that an email had arrived, Dean downloaded the photo and looked at it. “Dramatic. All that brick, those white columns, and that huge-ass steeple. Very fitting. I can see why you like it.”

“Thank you. Okay, so numerous miraculous healings in Waterville. Would that be enough to get Tristan and Ross to investigate?”

Dean chewed his bottom lip. “How about this? Numerous miraculous healings, but at each of them there was someone—an EMT, a tow truck driver, maybe just a concerned citizen—who had his or her hands on the person who was healed. Or on a person who survived something unsurvivable. But then after the fact, no one knows or recognizes this EMT, driver, citizen. Is Waterville a small town?”

“About sixteen-thousand people,” Cas said. “Including the college.”

“Maybe we can take a little poetic license with that. So Tristan and Ross go to investigate these healings and survivors because this isn’t normal, and they’re concerned maybe something bad is saving people to extort them later. No good deed goes unpunished, and all that.”

“What if he is? Raphael? What if he is healing people to extract a promise from them? Or a pledge?” Cas’ voice grew more excited. “What if he’s healing people or keeping them from dying in order to _recruit_ them for something?”

Dean laughed. “I like the way you think. That would definitely be something my characters would be smack in the middle of. And then the stakes are even higher than in my previous books, because how the hell are they going to fight an angel?”

“Not just any angel, Dean,” Cas said, furiously writing in his notebook. “Raphael is an archangel. He’d have even more power.” Cas looked up and away from the screen, frowning.

“Man…” Dean couldn’t help the grin and accompanying giddiness. “I cannot wait to write this!”

“Me too. But I’m also aware that it’s late for you, and Bal just got home and is very, very drunk, so I think I need to make sure he’s safe for the night.”

“’Kay. How’re we going to do this? You write the angel parts and I write my characters? Or do you want to alternate chapters?”

“I believe I know Raphael better than you would, so I will take care of him,” Cas said. “And I would not presume to understand your characters as well as you do. Let’s work out the major plot points over the next week or so and then we can start writing some draft parts and see where it goes from there.”

“I like it, Cas. Wish I could give you a goodnight kiss.”

“As do I. Perhaps you’ll dream of me, and I of you. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.” Dean ended the connection reluctantly. Working on a story hadn’t been this exhilarating since the first couple of books he’d written, before he even had a publishing contract. When had he lost that excitement of a new adventure? And what if… What if he and Cas rented a house in Waterville, writing the book while overlooking the story’s setting? Lazy mornings making out, breakfast on the outside balcony or patio that the house would unquestionably have, then a full day of writing, punctuated by kissing and laughter. He wondered if Waterville actually had any water. A lake, maybe? A fishing dock. Fresh fish for dinner. Evenings spent watching movies, wrapped up in each other, having mind-blowing sex.

Dean sighed and shook his head. Between Sammy’s student loans and three books a year to Bela, that was an expensive and unlikely scenario. But still fun to dream.


	13. Chapter 13

A week passed swiftly, and Dean was kept busy with outlining the remainder of the novel due to Bela in just a month and reactions on social media to posts and photos from FAWNcon, including those about his pendant—or amulet, according to Cas—from Chuck. Lots of people asked for photos of the pendant, some offering to track down its origin. Several people asked if Dean was going to bring it into his Beast Hunters series, maybe have Tristan give it to Ross to wear, and maybe make it magical in some way.

It was frightening how many hours could be spent reacting to the barest minimum of fans’ comments on social media, and very quickly, Dean could see how the six hours a day Cas put in had to be carefully monitored for the biggest effect. Even on Dean’s most reserved days, he was still spending an hour or so getting a sense of what his fans cared about.

There were frequent texts with Cas, and Skype sessions most evenings. Dean even got an introduction, such as it was, to Bal, when Cas’ brother plopped down heavily next to Cas on the sofa, and invited them—complete with Skype connection—to an orgy. On Friday morning at ten o’clock on the nose, Dean received a text from Cas that simply said, “Happy one-week anniversary, Dean.” Prior to meeting Cas, Dean would have thought such things romantically sappy, or maybe just nauseatingly sappy, but he found that he kind of liked it. Simple things, like that text, could make his whole day.

So when Cas called unexpectedly late Sunday morning, Dean was instantly in a good mood. “Hey Cas,” he answered as soon as the call connected.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas sounded out of breath, his tone worried.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m safe for the moment. Dean, I’m sorry. I should have expected this would happen eventually.”

Dean sat down at his desk. “What? What happened?”

“I believe Michael found me. I just returned from grocery shopping this morning and someone has been in the apartment.”

“A burglary? Cas, you need to call the police.”

“I don’t believe it was a burglar, Dean. All of Bal’s electronics are still here, as is the emergency cash. My laptop is still here, though I’m certain someone has accessed it. But all my notes are gone. Everything concerning our book, your contract. Even my copy of your latest book. Only Michael would care about something like that.”

“Does he…” Dean tried to think fast. “Does he have my contact information? Does he know where I live?”

“No, thankfully. The only place I have your contact information is on my phone, which is protected by my fingerprint. I don’t even back that up to a cloud. It’s secure. And your number in Skype says you’re my editor. I didn’t want to take any chances with a virus or hacker.”

“Okay. What about you? If he knows you’ve been staying with Bal…”

“I’ve already packed and left,” Cas said. The sound of a car door slamming was clear. “I need to find a new place to stay. Someplace I can drive, which means Hawaii is out, sadly. Michael could track flight manifests.”

“Come stay with me,” Dean said without thinking.

“Dean, I can’t do that to you.”

“ _To_ me? Dammit, Cas, this isn’t you doing anything _to_ me. I’m offering because I want to. Besides, no one knows where I live. Sam made sure of that. My apartment doesn’t appear on any legal forms, even my taxes and book contract. And my cell phone has a Missouri area code.”

“Are you sure, Dean? I had hoped that one day we might move in together, but even I recognize this is exceedingly fast.”

“I’m sure. How long do you think it will take you to get here?”

Cas sighed. “The maps application is telling me twenty-eight hours if I drive straight through. I can do it in two fourteen-hour shifts. I’ll stop…just after I pass Salt Lake City. Maybe Evanston, Wyoming. It’s a small town, and I can stay on the outskirts, pay in cash. I’ll wear a ball cap, sunglasses. Just another guy on a road trip. If I leave now, I’ll make Evanston by ten tonight. I can be there tomorrow evening.”

“Awesome. Call me when you’re about an hour away. I’ll make us some dinner.”

“I don’t want you to go overboard.”

“ _Offering_ , Cas,” Dean reminded him.

There was a long silence before Cas spoke. “You’ve saved me twice, Dean.”

“We’re keeping score now?” Dean asked. “Besides, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You might be saving me too. Hey, call or text when you get to Evanston, okay? No matter how late it is. Just want to know your ass is safe.”

“You’re assuming that if my ass is safe, the rest of me is as well?”

“I want that ass in pristine condition when you get here,” Dean said, adding a bit of a growl to his voice. As he’d hoped, Cas laughed, and the sound was like the best music.

“I’ll talk to you tonight, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

Go overboard, my ass, Dean thought as he surveyed the apartment. As long as things worked out— _please, to anyone in the universe who might listen_ —this wouldn’t be just a temporary stay. Cas was _moving in_. Dean grabbed a notepad and a pen and started to make a list: food, vacuuming, making space in the closet and half the dresser, new toiletries, maybe some new towels that didn’t have holes in them. And call Sam. Sam probably ought to know. About all of it, in case Michael was actually a threat.

He laughed wryly to himself. Here they’d been planning this novel about fighting Raphael, and now they had a real life threat in the form of Michael. Another angel name. Who was in freaking air force intelligence. Maybe they could find a way to turn this into a novel, after any actual threat was gone. If Bela would even consider such an outlandish plot.

Looking at the list, he chose the hardest one first: Call Sam.

 

* * *

 

At seven-thirty in the evening, Sam called. “So get this: I think I know how Michael found Cas,” he said without preamble.

“Really? How so?”

“Well, Cas did a really good job of hiding himself, and I think maybe it was someone else’s error on a website that was the problem. He’s a member of the Pacific Northwest Book Publishers Association as CJ Novak, which is fine. The only mailing address I can find for him in a general search is a post office box in Chicago, though it’s registered to a Celeste Middleton. I’m thinking maybe she’s someone he trusts and she sends his mail to him. But at one point, the PNBPA website had a residential mailing address listed for him in Bellingham, Washington, which is about two hours north of Seattle. The apartment number traces to a Balthazar Adler.”

“That’s gotta be his brother, Bal.” The name suddenly clicked with what Cas had said about his family being in politics. “Holy shit, Sam. Adler like Senator Zach Adler? The republican Senate majority leader?”

“Balthazar’s uncle, as far as I can tell,” Sam said. “He’s already put his name in for the next presidential race.”

“Fuck. Well, no wonder they want Cas to retract what he said about their family. How’d you find the Washington address then?”

“Like I said,” Sam explained, “the PNBPA website had the apartment listed long enough for Google to cache the page. I was able to access the cached page and see what it looked like before they removed his address.”

“So as a guy in air force intelligence, Michael could do the same thing.”

“Easily. And he probably had alerts set up under any family names and addresses. So he probably knew CJ Novak was a name associated with Balthazar, but not have confirmation of who CJ Novak was until the con.”

“But Cas said Novak wasn’t a name Michael would think to look under.”

“You have your computer, Dean?”

Dean jiggled his mouse and waited for the desktop to wake up. “Yeah. What do you need?”

“Google ‘CJ Novak.’”

Tapping the name into the search engine, Dean wondered if Cas had an alert set up under his own name. He’d have to ask. When the search results came up, Dean’s heart sank. “Son of a bitch.”

There were dozens of photos from FAWNcon, including several of himself with Cas at the keynote luncheon, examining the pendant. Amulet. Whatever. His fingers went to where it still hung around his neck. Some of the photos were from bloggers who were speculating why CJ Novak was making a public appearance after years of being reclusive. One photo of Cas looking fondly at Dean during lunch inspired numerous rumors, including one that they were secretly married. That would be something to be aware of when they released their crossover novel.

“Is he gonna be safe here, Sam? With me?”

“He’ll be as safe as anyone can be,” Sam said. “Even if Michael traces him to you, there’s no way he’s going to find you. Even with military clearance, I can’t think of any way he can get to you physically.”

“Okay. I’ll pass all this along to Cas when he gets here tomorrow night.” Dean could hear high-pitched talking in the background.

“Yes, I can see you too, Gabe,” Sam said, his voice somewhat muffled as if he was turned away from the phone. “He’s supposed to be in bed,” he added to Dean. “At least his vision works too. Good to know.”

“You worried about Gabe’s senses, Sammy?”

“All of them are working perfectly except for his common sense.”

Dean laughed. “He’s three. I don’t think he’s supposed to have common sense yet.”

“He’s discovered Australia, Dean. He wants to go there. Like, tomorrow. Wants me to drive him.”

“PBS again?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Sam let out a long sigh. “I love the little guy to pieces, but he might actually be more than I can handle. I am not looking forward to his teenage years.”

Dean covered his eyes and laughed silently as he pictured that. “Oh I am, Sammy. I am.”


	14. Chapter 14

At seven-thirty Monday morning, Dean’s phone rang. He’d talked to Cas a little before midnight, and while he fully intended to check in and be off the phone in just a few minutes, they wound up talking for several hours. Dean figured that was a good sign: they never seemed to run out of things to talk about, but silences were comfortable too.

He reached for his cell, eyes sticky and gummy with sleep, and squinted at the display. Bela. Swiping to accept the call, he tried to sound far more awake than he was. “Good morning, Bela. You do realize I’m an hour earlier than you are, yes?”

“I don’t care if it’s bloody two in the morning, sweetheart. What the hell do you think you’re doing, planning a novel with an amateur? And trying to weasel out of your contract?”

“What are you talking about, Bela? You know what? I need coffee before I can have this conversation. I’ll call you back in half an hour.” Dean hung up and silenced his phone. Sure enough, Bela called back immediately. He let it go to voicemail. Then he dialed his brother.

“This had better be important, Dean. Gabe insisted on sleeping in our bed last night. To _protect_ us, he says. I’ve had small feet repeatedly shoved into my stomach for the past seven hours.”

“Yeah. Uh…Bela found out about the crossover novel. She just called me to tear me a new one.”

“How did she find out?” Sam said behind a yawn.

“Probably from the notes Michael stole from Cas.”

“And that had Bela’s contact information?”

Dean thought about that. “No. I didn’t give him any of Bela’s information.” He snapped his fingers. “But Cas said the most recent copy of my book was missing too. My acknowledgments page thanks Bela as my editor.” He groaned. “And Crowley as my agent. Shit.”

“Why would Michael leak your crossover novel to your editor? He wants Cas, right? So why create problems for you?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Maybe he’s trying to jerk me around. Get me to turn Cas over. What do I do? With Bela, I mean.”

“Okay, hang on a minute.” There was a great deal of shuffling on the other end before Sam came back. “If all she has are Cas’ notes, then there’s nothing you’ve signed or that legally ties you to this. She can make all the fuss she wants, but she can’t do anything to you. You can spin it a couple of ways. One, you can say you know nothing about this and Cas made it all up.”

“No, I’m not going to throw Cas under the bus like that.”

“Okay. Two, you can say you were just talking with him about a crossover novel, but you haven’t even decided if you’re going to do it or not. Or three, you can say you were talking about it, and if it ever got written, you’d be submitting it to her anyway.”

Dean pondered the options as he shoveled coffee grounds into a filter, filled the machine with water, and stabbed the power button. “I like two the best. I can use that with Crowley too. Tell him I made this connection at FAWNcon and was just exploring the possibilities before I contacted him. Can this come back to bite me?”

“You’ve got nothing more than a verbal agreement with Cas, right?”

“Right. I mean, he could have recorded our conversation, but I don’t think he would. He didn’t tell me he was doing anything other than taking notes. And he asked about that before he did it.” Dean’s paranoia began manufacturing scenarios. What if Cas was lying to him? What if there was no break-in? What if Cas _had_ recorded him? Had recorded them in his hotel room? What if Cas was trying to ruin his career? Eliminate the competition. And the guy was on his way here. Now. To _move in_.

Dean sat down at the kitchen table and grabbed hold of the table’s edge, focusing on his breathing as blackness encroached on his vision. _No. Cas wasn’t like that. Cas wouldn’t lie. Would he?_

“Dean!” The voice was tinny.

With a start, Dean put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Sam. I…kinda blanked out.”

“I was going to tell you this later, but since you woke me up…”

Dean could imagine the bitchface Sam was making. “What?”

“I did look up a Castiel James Adler. Found the article you said he told you about. It’s exactly as he said. Younger sister Anna Julie Adler died of a drug overdose at the age of 16. He had some harsh things to say about adults choosing career over family. He didn’t pull any punches. It was unearthed and shared on social media when Senator Adler became the majority leader as a rebuttal to his claim that his party stood for family values. It’s pretty damaging, especially in a presidential campaign. If anyone ever found corroborating evidence, or if Cas gave another interview, it’d be problematic for Adler.”

“What are you saying, Sam?”

“I’m saying this guy’s got a threat hanging over him and it’s not going away anytime soon. You sure you’re up for this?”

Dean pictured a scenario without Cas. Of having the guy show up at his door that night, and turning him out onto the street. Of giving up the co-writing. Of how he felt when he was with Cas. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m up for it.”

“Okay. So for now, keep your head down. Throw Crowley a bone, make nice with Bela. If you decide to do the novel, we’ll reassess.”

The smell of coffee brewing filled the kitchen and Dean poured himself a cup. “Thanks, Sam.” He ended the call, nursed his cup of coffee while he thought over what he wanted to say, then called Bela back.

“It’s about time,” Bela snapped. “Tell me about this deal you have going.”

“Look, Bela, there’s no deal right now. I met another author at FAWNcon and we were just brainstorming ideas about a crossover between our two series. That’s it. I don’t even know if we’re going to write it. And if we do, I’d go through all the proper channels.”

“And the hack writer?”

“Ca— CJ isn’t a _hack writer_. Have you read his books?”

“Of course not. They’re not even distributed by a major distributor. They’re not _real_ books, Dean, and he’s not a _real_ author. But he is a _real_ guy, and you’ve been seen in some…less than platonic contexts.”

“Excuse me?” Dean’s mind was racing. They’d stayed in Cas’ room until checkout on Sunday, and avoided any public displays of affection in the hotel. They didn’t kiss again until— Dean’s breath caught in his chest. The light-rail train on the way to the airport. And then after they were through security at the airport. At a coffee shop in the terminal. _Fuck._

“What I do on my own time is my business, Bela,” Dean said, putting as much steel in his voice as he could muster.

“Not true, kitten. I’ve told you a hundred times you are a brand now. And we have invested a great deal of money in your brand. Masculine. Self-assured. Cocky. Charming. Every woman wants to be with you. Every man wants to _be_ you. And, I’m sorry to tell you, but we cannot sell this brand if you are being…intimate with another man. And especially not when that other man is a thorn in the side of the book industry. He represents everything that is wrong in publishing.”

“What are you really telling me, Bela?”

“I’m telling you that you have a choice. Dump the hack and we’ll continue on as we were before. Or you’ll be offered the option to purchase our remaining stock of your titles. Ciao, Dean.”


	15. Chapter 15

Despite not having an appetite, Dean forced himself to eat breakfast. He vacuumed the apartment, moved some clothes, changed the bed sheets, and cleaned the bathroom, stocking it with a new toothbrush and razor. He’d found a set of hand towels at the store with embroidered bees on them and couldn’t resist getting them after Cas shared his admiration of bees that evening on their walk to the river. He set one on the counter next to the bathroom sink and hung the other over the edge of the kitchen sink.

He made a run to the grocery store, picking up fresh fruit for the next morning, along with the makings for burgers and home fries. And a fresh-baked cherry pie. Why not? This was as much a celebration as it was a practical solution. And dammit, but Cas made him feel happy.

By six in the evening, he was pacing, checking his cell phone every few seconds just in case he missed Cas’ call. He sat down and turned on the TV, flipped through channels without paying much attention, then switched it off again. He reconsidered the dinner menu at least a dozen times. He checked Facebook, Twitter, and the traffic feeds, wary of accidents along Cas’ likely route. He checked his email, and felt sick at the sight of one new message.

 

from:            Capt. Michael Adler USAF <adler.michael.usaf@gmail.com>  
to:                Dean <dean@winchester.com>  
date:             Mon, May 15, 2017 at 12:00 PM  
subject:        By Now You Know

Dear Mr. Winchester:

By now you know that I have compromising information on you. I have sent some of this information to your editor. I have no wish to harm you or end your career. However, I need you to understand that I have the power to do so and I am serious.

I know that you have made contact with my brother Castiel. I need to know where he is. Even better, I would like you to help me to bring him home, that we may resolve some serious family issues. If you would keep him occupied in some location and text me the address, I will have my people retrieve him. In return, I will contact your editor and grease the skids for a long and lucrative contract for you.

Should you choose to interfere or resist, I will send the remainder of what I have to both your editor and your agent. You have until Thursday, May 18, 2017 at 7:00 PM Central time to say yes or no. For your own sake, say yes.

###

 

It wasn’t too early to drink, was it? No, it most definitely was not. Dean poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey, enough to start to erase what a shitstorm this day had quickly become.

At six-twenty, Cas finally called, wanting directions to the apartment.

“Hey, I got a lot to tell you when you get here,” Dean said, after giving him instructions, along with where to park. “It’s been quite the day.”

“For me too, Dean. I’ve been thinking a lot during the drive. Remembering things. Nothing bad for us; I still want us to work out. But I have unfinished business I may need to take care of soon. I’ll be there in less than an hour. I’ll tell you everything.”

 

* * *

 

Dean had just pulled the fries from the oven and put the freshly-cooked burgers in to stay warm when there was a knock on the door. He checked the peephole just in case, only to be rewarded by Cas on the other side.

“Look at you,” Dean said after he opened the door, “showing up on my doorstep. Come in.”

Cas entered slowly, trailing a small carryon bag behind him.

“We can get the rest of your luggage after dinner. Come on, burgers are ready.”

“Oh.” Cas set the carryon up against the nearest wall. “I don’t have any other luggage.”

“You don’t… That’s it? That one bag?”

“I travel light.” Cas managed a smile. “My swords are in the trunk, but they can stay there for now. You mentioned burgers?”

“Yeah. Lemme give you a quick tour. Living room,” Dean said, pointing to the sofa and TV, “office,” pointing to the desk beyond the sofa, “bathroom through that door, kitchen straight ahead, and bedroom,” he pointed to the queen-sized bed on the other side of the room. “Cozy, right?”

Cas looked at him for a long moment with what seemed like affection. “It’s perfect, Dean.”

“Yeah, well…thanks. So let’s eat. I’m starving. And we need to get you settled. And much as I want tonight to be getting comfortable, there’s some crap that’s come up.” He led Cas into the kitchen area and motioned for him to sit at the table, then plated the fries and burgers and set them down on the table with the fixings he’d already prepared. “Beer?” he asked.

“Thanks,” Cas said with a nod.

He got two beers out of the fridge, snapped the caps off, and handed one to Cas, then clinked their bottles together. “To a new chapter.”

“Are you punning on my first night here?” Cas asked.

Dean took a swallow and nodded. “Glad to see we’re on the same page.”

Laughing, Cas assembled his burger, then looked at it longingly before taking a bite. “Oh, Dean…” he moaned around a mouthful. “Delicious. These…make me very happy.”

“And I bought a bunch of fresh fruit for tomorrow’s breakfast. I wasn’t sure what your favorites were, so I got some of each. Berries, melon, the standard apples, oranges, and bananas.”

“You spoil me,” Cas said after swallowing. “You really didn’t need to.”

“Still offering, Cas.” Dean took a large bite, chewed, and swallowed, then added some home fries to his plate. “So, we gotta talk. You first or me?”

“I’ll talk; you eat,” Cas said. “You look hungrier than I feel.” He took one more bite, then licked his fingers clean before wiping them on a napkin. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what led me to this point. So much of it is about hiding from my family. In a lot of ways, I’m free. Free to write the books I want, free from overbearing contracts and editors, free to be creative instead of always playing to the publisher’s bottom line. I don’t have a lot of roots or ties to people or places. Until now.”

Cas stole a fry from Dean’s plate and munched on it. “You’ve made me question all of this, Dean. Your devotion to your family, your selflessness in caring for them. I want what you have. And even though I may have a lot of freedom in my career, I’m not free when it comes to my family. I’m not free to do appearances and conventions. Severing ties with my family won’t work. Rebelling didn’t work. Michael won’t give up. So…I think I need to give him what he wants. I’ll do another interview, say what he wants me to say, and I can move forward without this hanging over me.”

“Don’t you dare, Cas,” Dean said, pointing at him. “Don’t you dare. There’s more to this story. Your brother is a Grade-A dick. He took some of what you had in your notes, along with some photos of us together, and passed all that along to Bela, who called me this morning to threaten my contract. Again. Then he sent me an email, saying he was going to send the rest to her and to Crowley if I didn’t turn you over to him. He thinks he can just snap his fingers and get his way, manipulate me like a puppet. I say screw him.”

“Dean, you don’t want to be on his bad side. He’s—”

“Not omnipotent. And yeah, I know about your uncle and his bid for president.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you all of it. I was afraid you’d judge me based on their reputations.”

“I don’t do that. I judge people based on their actions. You’re trying to do the right thing, Cas. I get it. Look, Sam said there’s no way Michael’s gonna find you here. He can’t even trace _me_ here.”

“But I’m sure he has access to traffic cameras, all kinds of surveillance. He could triangulate your phone calls. It isn’t fair to drag you into this. You’re not safe either, with him. He’ll use you and spit you out once he has what he wants. I can’t do that to you, Dean.”

“You’re not doing anything _to_ me,” Dean countered. “We’ll just have to be careful for now. And we’ll figure out how to get out from under his thumb. One way or another. But he did give me a timeline. He wants an answer by Thursday night. I want to tell him no, but that means the end of my writing career. I’ve been trying to think of how I could say yes but then trick him, keep you safe, but…even my imagination’s running dry.”

Cas raised his eyebrows, looking excited. “It doesn’t have to be. The end of your writing career. This is the perfect opportunity for you to go solo, Dean. Let them terminate the contract, all rights revert back to you as the author, and you can take your series into self-publishing. You could set up a company that would publish your books, manage your brand the way you want it to be managed. You’ve got a phenomenal fan base. They’ll follow you. They don’t care who publishes the books, as long as you keep giving them new material to read.”

“I saw your marketing handout, Cas. There’s no way I can do that.”

“Then you missed what I said about it. That handout was a list of _all_ the possible things an author could do to market their books. And what I said is that to be successful, you only need to pick two or three of those things that work for your personality and life, focus on them, and do them well.”

“Oh.” Dean ran a hand over his chin. “I guess I did miss that. I just… This is new, you know? I’m used to traditional publishing. It’s got a proven track record. Self-publishing seems so…uncertain. And with a traditional publisher, I’ve got all their marketing dollars behind me. Self-publishing, you’re on your own.”

“That’s something Charlie taught me,” Cas said. “Even if you’re a big name. That just because you have star power and a huge marketing budget, it doesn't always equal sales.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Even Isaac Asimov had some stories that were rejected and never even published. If he could have self-published, I’d be all over those stories.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how much do you make a year in royalties?” Cas asked.

Dean chewed his lower lip while he thought. “Sam and my accountant would know better, but…I think maybe thirty grand a year? Maybe thirty-five?”

“Dean, I make almost twice that.”

“You…? _Twice?_ ”

Cas nodded. “I make seventy percent of the retail price on most ebook sales, and between forty and fifty-five percent on paper books. I’m looking into doing audio books too. If you received fifty percent of the retail price of all your books sold in the next year, assuming your sales numbers stayed the same, what do you think you’d make?”

“Enough to get a bigger place, that’s for sure.” Dean whistled. “Are you _sure_ I could do this?”

“I’m certain, Dean. You’d have to have new covers made, because your current ones are owned by your publisher. And you’d need to hire an editor. But yes. Get the rights back, and with your following, you can make a lot more, without having to worry about what Bela’s going to throw at you next.”

“Okay.” Dean sighed. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. But we still need to deal with Michael.”

“Tell him no. Let him send whatever he wants, throw his tantrum. In fact, maybe we can even use his email to you as leverage against him. Proof of blackmail. I don’t know. We need someone who knows what’s legal and what’s not.” Cas cocked an eyebrow. “Know anyone like that?”

Dean laughed. “All right. Well, let’s celebrate freedom for both of us. I got pie.”


	16. Chapter 16

Dean sent emails to both Bela and Michael before curling up on the sofa with Cas, some unknown action movie on the TV while they reacquainted themselves with each other’s mouths. By bedtime, they were down to boxer briefs and trying out what Dean was pretty sure were some massage techniques on each other. There was no urgent need to go further, and thankfully, no anxiety either. Dean suspected there’d been too much stress for both of them that day to be able to reach orgasm, and a restful night’s sleep would do more to help their sex life than pursuing that elusive climax. Still, as they both fought yawns, he acknowledged a little disappointment, wondering what it would feel like to have Cas inside of him.

The apartment didn’t have a balcony or a patio, and the only view was of the building next door, but breakfast Tuesday morning was almost as good as Dean had imagined it in his Waterville fantasy. Cas washed and cut up fruit at the sink, dressed only in his boxers, and Dean couldn’t help but come up behind him, wrap his arms around Cas’ waist, rest his chin on Cas’ shoulder, and watch.

“No fancy knife tricks with the fruit?” Dean asked, regretting that he couldn’t feel Cas’ skin through his t-shirt.

“I wasn’t aware you wanted a show. I can indeed handle a knife like normal people.”

“Show me what you got, angel.”

Cas turned his head to the side, looking out of the corner of his eyes with a smile. “Nicknames now?”

“Hey, named after an angel, writes about angels. You can’t tell me the name doesn’t fit.”

“And what am I supposed to call you, Dean? Beast?”

Dean laughed. “You show me what you got with the knife, I’ll show you my skills in bed. Beast might be quite appropriate.”

Cas smirked, then looked back at the knife he was holding. He adjusted his grip on it, holding it between middle finger and thumb, then spun it around his thumb several times before catching it, tossing it to his other hand, and repeating the spin. “I can do it with two knives as well.”

“You learn that in samurai-sword-training?”

“No.” Cas shook his head. “YouTube.”

Dean laughed again and set about cooking some eggs and bacon.

 

A little after noon, as they were sitting on the sofa, brainstorming ideas about a publishing company name for Dean’s books, Bela called.

“This is a courtesy call,” Bella said after Dean answered. “Only because we have a history. I like you Dean. I really do. I wish we could have worked longer together. And I argued on your behalf with my superiors, but, as you know, money talks louder than words. You’ll be receiving a termination letter tomorrow. I just overnighted it to you. You don’t need to sign it. One of our inventory managers will be in touch with you in the next week or so to let you know how many copies of your titles we currently have in stock. You’re welcome to purchase them at your usual author discount of twenty percent. If you choose not to purchase them, you need to let us know in writing. Email is fine. In that case, we are free to dispose of them as we see fit. If we sell them, we keep all proceeds. You’ll be sent a royalty check for any sales that took place through yesterday and our business will be complete. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Do all rights revert to me upon my receipt of the termination letter?”

“Only the rights you granted to us, Dean. We own the rights to the cover art, the interior formatting, fonts used, the title design, and the series name.”

“Whoa, what do you mean the series name?”

“I mean, we own the rights to the Beast Hunters series. Your manuscripts are yours, but the series is ours. You cannot take the series or characters to another publisher or we will have grounds for a lawsuit.”

Dean swore under his breath. “I will be consulting my attorney on this. I don’t remember signing over the series, and the Beast Hunters name was mine. That was part of my pitch. Even Crowley knows that.”

“Nevertheless, it’s in your contract. Which you signed. We _will_ enforce it, Dean. Goodbye.”

Dean held the phone out, staring at the screen as if it might suddenly tell him it was all a joke.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” Cas asked. “What about the series name?”

“Bela says the publisher owns it. That I can’t take it anywhere else. Which means no self-publishing under that series.”

“I’ve heard of this, but thought that practice went out in the nineties.”

“You _knew_ of this, Cas? What the hell? You said you were _certain_ about my self-publishing. And now my contract’s in the toilet and I’ve got nothing.”

“Not nothing. If the series name was something you came up with, not them, then I think you can fight them. Why don’t you call Sam and see what he has to say?”

Dean stood and strode over to the kitchen, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, opened it, and drank half of it. He knew Cas didn’t have anything to do with this. Not really, But he was angry all the same, as if Cas had somehow misdirected him. “Fine,” he grumbled, more to himself.

He sat down at the kitchen table and brought up Sam’s number. “Sammy, I need your help again, man,” he said after his brother answered.

“Yeah, okay. I’ve got a client coming in at one, but I can give you half an hour now. And Gabe’s with a sitter, so I can actually get some work done.”

Dean relayed what he and Cas had talked about regarding self-publishing, then Bela’s call and the series name issue. “Can they do that? It was _my_ name.”

“Let me get your contract, Dean. Hold on.”

Dean waited, twirling and tapping his bottle on the table. Cas was quiet on the sofa, reading something on his phone.

“It’s kind of ambiguous,” Sam said when he got back on the line. “There’s a section about title and series rights, and it does say that if they refuse a manuscript in the series, you can’t use the series name to publish the rejected manuscript with someone else unless you have their written permission. But it doesn’t say that they _own_ the series name, or that their right to use the series name survives termination of the contract.”

“So what does that mean for my self-publishing the series and future books?”

“Well, they could take you to court over it, but all they’ve got on their side are deep pockets and a roomful of attorneys. I don’t think they’d have a strong case here, Dean.”

“Maybe I should just…give up. Go work with Bobby. Every time I think I’ve gotten away from being screwed over, I get thrown another curveball.”

“Well, that’s always your call, Dean. But I know this is something you want. If you want to fight this, I’ll take it on as a case in return for childcare.”

“Meaning what, exactly, Sam?”

“Meaning you watch Gabe during the day if I take this case. I’ll need time to research other book contracts, get input from publishing and intellectual property attorneys…there’s going to be a mess of phone calls and correspondence. I can’t do that effectively if I think Gabe’s planning his next practical joke.”

“What do you mean, practical joke? He’s three.”

“Sometime before breakfast this morning, he dumped an entire spice jar full of cayenne pepper into the orange juice.”

“He—” Dean held his stomach as he laughed. “And then you shook it before pouring for you and Jess? Oh God… Are there photos?”

“No, there are no photos, Dean. I was not amused. Neither was Jess.” Sam made a disgusted sound. “I can still taste it. So, you want me to pursue this?”

“I don’t know, Sam. I mean, I’m sure Cas and I can take care of Gabe. I just don’t know what to do here.”

“Okay. How about this? I’ll send an official letter as your legal representation to your publisher’s legal department, arguing that since the Beast Hunters name was your intellectual property prior to signing with them, and not created by the publisher, that all rights to that name cease with the execution of a termination letter. Should they pursue any legal action against you for the use of said intellectual property, we will see them in court. And we’ll see what their response is.”

“You think that will be enough?” Dean drained his bottle and eyed the fridge.

“I do. I think they’re just trying to scare you, make you beg to come back. You’re a money-maker for them. They don’t want to lose that. But they want you compliant.”

“Yeah, well… Compliant’s not my strong suit.”

“Good. I’ll draft the letter later today, FedEx it to them tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Sammy. I owe you.”

“No, Dean. You don’t. I know exactly how much you’re giving up by making payments on my loans. And don’t think that I’ve forgotten everything you did for me when Dad was gone on business. Besides, you’re my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Okay. No more sappy brother talk.”

“Right. Like you didn’t just have your boyfriend move in with you. Speaking of, when do I get to meet him?”

“I dunno.” Dean lowered the phone and called over to Cas. “Sam wants to meet you. What do you think?”

“I’d like to meet him too,” Cas said, looking over the back of the sofa. “Anytime is good for me.”

Dean raised the phone to his ear again.

“I heard,” Sam said. “How about dinner Friday night? Our place.”

“Okay. You got it.”

“Great. Send me any dietary needs Cas has. I’ll talk to you soon, Dean.”


	17. Chapter 17

“You’re stressed again,” Cas said, rubbing Dean’s shoulders as he sat at the kitchen table.

“Who wouldn’t be? In the space of a week, my entire life’s been turned upside down.”

Cas’ fingers stilled. “I don’t have to stay here, Dean.”

“No, Cas…” Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “That’s not what I meant. It’s not you. In fact, I haven’t been this happy in a long time. You did that. It’s just…all this with my contract. And your brother. Seems like everything went wrong at once.”

“I understand that, Dean. You carry a lot of responsibility.”

Dean shrugged his shoulders under Cas’ hands. “That’s nothing new. After Mom died, Dad threw himself into work to cope. Bobby, his business partner, stayed in the shop to work on the cars while Dad traveled all over, going to car shows and trying to drum up business. It was the eighties, and business wasn’t great. High interest rates, no one wanted to take out a loan for a custom car. We didn’t have a lot of money coming in. I took care of Sammy, made sure he got to school, did his homework. I mowed lawns and did odd jobs for extra money where I could. A lot of people couldn’t afford much. The whole thing drove Dad to drink, and pretty soon we didn’t have any money at all. I dropped out of high school to go to work for Bobby, got my GED a couple years later. And in my free time, I wrote.”

“Like I said, you carry a lot of responsibility.” Cas combed through Dean’s hair with his fingertips, massaging little circles into his scalp. “Do you trust me?”

“Why?”

“My abilities to help you in this situation are limited, but I can offer you a temporary respite. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, Cas. I trust you.”

“Excellent. I want you to put a clean sheet or towel on the bed, take all your clothes off, and lie face down.”

“You…?”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Now, Dean.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean stood and stripped off his shirt, then grabbed a towel out of the tiny linen closet next to the bathroom. He watched Cas grab his carry-on and disappear into the bathroom. A thrill wound its way through his abdomen, sparking tingles in his extremities.

He spread the towel over the covers, quickly shucked his boxer briefs, and lay down. Immediately he realized he couldn’t see Cas coming over from the bathroom, and he listened carefully for the soft fall of footsteps. The cool air on his body seemed to heighten his senses, and he could almost feel every hair on his skin alert for changes in the environment.

“You’re so beautiful, Dean,” Cas murmured next to him, causing Dean to start.

“Shit, Cas, don’t give me a heart attack.”

“My apologies. That would not be conducive to my goal.” Cas ran a hand through Dean’s hair, down his neck, trailing along his spine, then a single finger dragging along his crack before it disappeared.

Dean felt the bed dip as Cas climbed on and straddled his thighs, adjusting himself so some of his weight pinned Dean’s hips to the bed while the rest was supported by his legs. Moments later, Dean felt something warm dripping on his shoulders and upper back. “Cas?”

“Shhh, Dean. Just relax. Try to clear your mind for a little while.”

Letting out a long breath, Dean closed his eyes. Cas’ hands were just as warm on his upper back, running through whatever had dripped on him, moving effortlessly over his shoulders and the back of his neck, finding every sore muscle. Massage oil, Dean realized. The scent had a hint of cinnamon and something else…maybe vanilla. It smelled warm and relaxing and Dean could actually feel the tension ease out of his body.

Cas worked through sore muscles and stiffness in his back and neck and shoulders before moving down his arms, his hands wrapped around Dean’s bicep, making Dean’s arm feel nearly boneless. Cas didn’t skimp either, paying attention to each finger, each joint, treating every one with the same care and thoroughness. When he moved to the other arm, Dean could feel a pleasant, warm tingling in the fingertips of the one just massaged.

“Good at this, Cas,” he mumbled.

“Thank you.” Once Cas finished with the other arm, he moved off of Dean’s legs and lightly grazed his fingertips over Dean’s ass cheeks on the way to his thighs. Dribbling more massage oil on the backs of Dean’s thighs, Cas found more sore muscles and tender spots that Dean didn’t even realize were there. The backs of his calves were particularly sore, and Cas hummed as he rubbed the tension out.

Dean was a little nervous about the sensitivity of his feet, but Cas seemed to know exactly where and how hard to rub to avoid tickling. Several of Dean’s toes popped as Cas pressed and gently pulled at them. Feeling a little sleepy from all the attention, it seemed perfectly normal when Cas drizzled more massage oil over his ass, fingers digging into the muscles of his cheeks and finding yet more knots and sore spots, especially from the center of his cheeks out toward his hips.

There was no sense of time as Cas worked the muscles and tissue, and Dean was only half-aware when Cas’ thumbs pressed slightly into his crack, pulling the cheeks apart tenderly and massaging around his hole. The feeling was rhythmic and smooth, and despite the sense that Cas was scrutinizing his most private area, he was able to stay relaxed. He felt Cas’ fingers, then, as they rubbed over his hole, pressing but not breaching. It had never occurred to him before that an asshole could be massaged, but it was in fact a muscle.

He was almost to the point of begging Cas to give him an internal massage when the fingers disappeared altogether, and Dean unapologetically whined.

Cas chuckled. “Time for the other side, Dean. I need you to roll over.”

After testing his hands and feet to make sure they still worked, Dean lifted himself off the towel and settled onto his back, aware that he was already hard from the last part of that massage. Cas noticed when he returned from washing his hands and gave him a smirk while drying his hands on another towel.

Picking up a bottle from the nightstand, Cas poured a small amount of oil into his hands and rubbed them together. He started on Dean’s face then, rubbing small circles into his forehead and the lines between his eyebrows. Cas’ thumbs massaged over his eyebrows, finding small yet sore pockets of stress. Long fingers slowly eased the pain in his temples, then rubbed over his cheekbones, away from the center of his nose. Dean felt his jaw cupped and massaged, the muscles at the corners of his jaw finally starting to slacken and relax.

From there, Cas worked down his neck, never pressing too hard, but pulling and stretching muscle and tissue, elongating Dean’s neck, leaving it feeling tingly and loose. Dean winced as Cas’ fingers found particularly sore muscles in his upper pecs, expertly rubbing them out without too much pain. A different sort of sensation added itself to the stretching and rubbing, and when an especially pleasurable jolt went through his chest, he opened his eyes and raised his head slightly to see Cas pinching and rolling his nipples along with the massage.

“Not every man has sensitive nipples,” Cas said, rubbing at Dean’s pecs with all but his index fingers, then using those index fingers to drag his fingernails over the nubs, causing Dean’s entire body to spasm in response. “But you’re so responsive.” Another drag of nails, quicker this time, almost a flick, had Dean shuddering and breathing fast. “I have half a mind to handcuff you and see if I can get you to come from nipple play alone.”

Dean widened his eyes in shock at the same time his cock twitched with interest.

“Interesting,” Cas said with a raised eyebrow. “I was originally joking, but now I might need to add some future exploration. Not today though.” Cas continued to massage down Dean’s stomach and abs, then the tops of his thighs. “Today is about relaxing you, not stretching your boundaries.”

Dean refrained from saying anything, his silence somehow adding to the sensitivity. He couldn’t shake the image now, of himself tied down, knees pulled back and spread, completely vulnerable and open to whatever Cas wanted to do to him. He closed his eyes and added a blindfold to the image, imagined not knowing what Cas was going to touch next, if it might sting or soothe, and he almost wanted to pull his legs back just to see what Cas would do. There was no way he’d ever consider making himself that vulnerable for anyone else, but something about Cas made him want to offer.

He was leaking now, the fantasy in his head combining with the feel of Cas’ hands rubbing along the insides of his thighs, the backs of Cas’ fingers brushing his cock but paying no attention to it.

“Put your feet flat on the bed,” Cas directed. “Knees together.” After Dean complied, Cas grabbed an extra pillow from the bed. “Now raise your bottom.” Cas slid the pillow under the towel, then tapped Deans knees to indicate he could relax again.  “Now let your knees fall open. Allow your feet to roll on their sides, and touch the soles to each other.” Dean followed instructions as best he could, letting Cas adjust his legs as needed.

The end result was the pillow supporting Dean’s lower back, canting his ass slightly up. His legs were comfortable, his feet warm where the soles touched, and belatedly Dean realized this gave Cas access to everything. The fantasy was back in his head, and in an effort to get a little taste of it, Dean crossed his wrists and put them above his head, then watched Cas’ expression.

Cas didn’t say anything, but there was a hungry look in his eyes and a smile playing around his mouth. He poured some more oil into his hands and rubbed up Dean’s inner thighs from his knees to his groin, thumbs pressing deeply into the flesh. He did this a few times, then on the last upper pass, he moved his hands slightly and his fingers rubbed over Dean’s scrotum and then his cock. Cas focused there then, rubbing and pulling at his dick as if it was just another extremity to massage, using one hand to hold Dean’s sack down and stretching his dick with the other. Oiled fingers massaged all around his balls, never too hard, rubbing places Dean didn’t even realize existed. Cas wrapped his hand around Dean’s shaft and began massaging the underside just below the head, his thumb occasionally sweeping up over the top in a searing burst of pleasure. His other hand moved lower and massaged Dean’s perineum, until Dean felt opposing sensations: the further hardening of his cock and the loosening of everything else down there.

Another sweep over his cockhead, then Dean felt Cas rubbing the head alone between two oiled fingers as another finger slid easily into his hole. Dean almost moved his legs or brought his hands down to clutch the towel, but he forced himself to stay in this position, to keep himself open and exposed. He couldn’t stop groaning as Cas began stroking him more vigorously, interspersed with long, languid strokes and several seconds where all he felt was intense rubbing against the head and an increased feeling of fullness as Cas slid another finger in, spreading him open.

Cas twisted his fingers inside and Dean felt sudden pressure in his lower abdomen, just-massaged muscles in his ass tightening. “Cas…” he moaned. Another shift in his hole and jolts of bliss shot through him. “Oh, God!” Dean cried out.

Setting up a rhythm, Cas worked him front and back until he didn’t think he could take anymore. “Cas… I want…”

“What, Dean?”

Dean panted, not able to think beyond the heavenly sensations. “Want…”

“Use your words, Dean.”

“You, Cas… Want you.”

“Are you sure, Dean? I can bring you to orgasm like this.”

“No!” Dean breathed out. “Want…you… Fuck me, Cas.”

Cas withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the towel. He got off the bed, dropped his boxers, and retrieved something from the nightstand that Dean couldn’t see.

“I’m clean,” Dean added quickly. “Got tested.”

“I am clean as well,” Cas said, tearing open a condom wrapper, “considering you’re the first person I’ve been with. But better safe than sorry.” He rolled on the condom and added actual lube. “By the way, these are polyurethane, not latex. The massage oil won’t damage them.”

Dean was still stuck on Cas’ earlier comment. “Wait…you’re…?”

Cas moved Dean’s lower legs and settled in between them, lining himself up. “A virgin? Technically, I suppose.” He slid in slowly, watching Dean’s face carefully.

Dean expected pain and discomfort, and while there was a bit of a burn, it felt good. It felt right. But Cas was holding still. “Dude, move. I’m ready.” He bucked his hips up into Cas, causing Cas to gasp.

Breathing heavily, Cas started moving, whimpering with each thrust. “Dean, you feel… I never knew… It’s so good.”

“Want you to feel good, Cas,” Dean gasped, hearing the slapping of their skin together. He canted his hips up to meet Cas and felt an explosion in his lower body as Cas nailed his prostate. “Oh, God, Cas…”

Dean had no choice now; the need overrode everything. He reached for his dick, stroking it slowly at first, then faster, avoiding the sensitivity of the head. Every sensation grew, too many to identify, just the pressure and the need as he chased his release.

He felt like he was rushing, flying, soaring toward a cliff’s edge, and he felt the moment he knew it was going to happen, when his muscles tightened, his legs stiffened, and his balls drew in, and then he was coming all over his stomach, hot and wet.

With Cas inside him, he could feel his hole clench in rhythm with his orgasm, then Cas gave a broken moan, thrust a couple of times erratically, and Dean could feel Cas shudder inside him as he came. The oversensitivity came quickly, and Dean gasped as Cas pulled out and collapsed on the bed next to him.

They stared at each other for a few moments until Cas pulled the condom off and tied it closed. Cas then grabbed the towel he’d been wiping his hands on and used it to clean Dean up, then himself. Wrapping the used condom in the towel, he dropped it on the floor. He guided Dean up, tossed the towel that had been under Dean onto the floor with the other one, and pulled the covers back so they could slide in.

“Shower soon,” Dean mumbled. “But rest now.”

“Mmm…” Cas agreed. “Rest.” He curled into Dean, tucking his head into Dean’s neck.

Dean ran his fingers through Cas’ hair, knowing he’d been stressed about something before, but having no idea what it was.

 

Dean woke an hour later, deliciously warm and relaxed and sated. He opened his eyes to see Cas watching him from the other pillow. “You sleep at all?”

“A little,” Cas said. “I woke up just a bit ago. I like watching you sleep.”

“That’s not creepy at all.” At Cas’ laugh, Dean grinned. “Dude, you gotta tell me something.”

“Anything, Dean.”

“Before we…” Dean waved his hand between them, “you were a _virgin_? And you knew how to fucking do _that_?”

Cas sighed and nodded his head once. “Being asexual doesn’t necessarily mean someone is not interested in sex. For me, it’s about attraction. I was never attracted to anyone before you, and despite how much I loved your words, I still had to meet you to know if it was just your words or if it was _you_. I’m happy to say it was the latter.”

“But still…that was…”

“I also said that the human body fascinates me. As does its response to physical stimuli.”

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“As are you, Dean. As are you."


	18. Chapter 18

“What time does your brother want us there?” Cas called from the bathroom.

“Six,” Dean said, packing the two covered pies he’d baked into a shallow basket with plenty of cushioning. “They’re about forty-five minutes away, so we need to leave as soon as possible.” He carried the basket out to the Impala, checked to make sure the car cover was still over Cas’ old beater in the carport, and came back, expecting Cas to be ready to go. He wasn’t.

“Cas, buddy?” Dean found him still in the bathroom, a comb in one hand and a spray bottle in the other.

“I can’t get it to behave,” Cas said, indicating his hair. “I never worry about it; messy hair goes with the whole recluse/eccentric look. But it looks like I just had wild sex and got fucked within an inch of my life.”

Dean leaned against the door jamb. “Well, you _did_.”

“Yes, but I don’t need to advertise that to your brother and sister-in-law.”

“Here.” Dean took the comb and bottle and set them on the counter, then grabbed a the tube of styling gel he used, squeezed a small amount in his hand, rubbed them together, and ran his fingers through Cas’ hair. He adjusted a few tufts, then nodded in approval. “Done. The debauched look is good on you.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Thank you. I think.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Cas. He just wants to meet you. What happened to not caring what other people thought of you?”

“That’s other people, Dean. That’s not my boyfriend’s brother. He means a lot to you, so he’s important to me.”

“He’s probably just as anxious to meet you. C’mon. I’m hungry.”

“When are you not?”

 

The drive from Lawrence to Leawood, a suburb of Kansas City, was just under an hour with traffic. Sam and Jess’ house was on a cul-de-sac, a blue stucco, two-story home built in the ‘90s that Dean had dubbed “The Mansion.” When Sam had argued that it was nowhere near mansion status, Dean had asked him how many square feet it had, compared to his seven-hundred-fifty in the apartment. Sam had yet to answer, but Dean already knew: it was five times as big.

He didn’t begrudge his brother the house. Sam worked from home, so he needed a certain image to attract clients. They could afford the mortgage on Jess’ salary alone. And Jess and Sam wanted lots of kids. But he still felt like he and his brother lived on opposite sides of the tracks.

He parked Baby in the driveway, gave Cas a final hand squeeze for moral support, grabbed the pies, and led Cas to the door. Movement appeared in the long windows that flanked the front door, and Jess opened it with a, “You made it!”

Dean entered the foyer and accepted a hug from Jess, then saw Sam coming in from the back of the house, Gabe on his hip. “Heya, Sammy.”

“You must be Cas,” Jess said, taking both of Cas’ hands in hers. “So here’s the rule. I’ll show you where everything is—dishes, food, bathroom—and after that you’re on your own. What’s ours is yours. You don’t have to ask for permission.”

Cas bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“And I’m Sam,” Sam said, coming forward and holding out his giant moose hand.

Cas shook it before Sam pulled him into a one-armed hug.

“Gabee-el!” Gabe shouted.

“And this is Gabriel,” Sam said, rubbing Gabe’s chin with one finger.

“You must be very strong, Gabriel,” Cas said, his tone serious.

“I am!” Gabe said, holding up his arms to show off his biceps and nearly hitting Sam in the face.

“Do you know how I know?” Cas asked.

“No.” Gabe shook his head.

“Your name. It means ‘strength of God.’ You can’t get much stronger than that.”

“Yeah!” Gabe cheered. “I God now!”

“No, you’re not God,” Sam said, setting him down. “Go play until I call you for dinner.”

“I wanna play a game!”

“What game is that?” Dean asked.

“The game!” Gabe insisted.

“How do we play?” Sam asked in a tone of never-ending patience.

“You playing it!” Gabe said, grinning.

“And what are the rules for this game?” Cas asked. “I don’t want to break any.”

Gabe giggled and ran off.

“He’ll be fine,” Jess assured them. “But don’t be surprised if he comes back with costumes. He likes to make people actors in some play he’ll never tell us about. Speaking of,” she nudged Sam’s arm, “he was asking the other day about his clown costume.”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said. “It…uh…got dirty. You know? So I washed it, but…it…didn’t survive. Sorry.”

Jess raised her eyebrows. “You threw it out, didn’t you, babe?”

“Yes.”

“Still afraid of clowns, huh, Sam?” Dean teased.

Sam shot him a bitchface. “Come into the kitchen.”

 

After a delicious dinner and dessert, during which Gabe demanded whipped cream for the pie and Dean had to agree with him, they moved to the living room while Jess put Gabe to bed.

Dean and Cas settled on a leather sofa while Sam sat in one of two La-Z-Boy chairs. The living room boasted a vaulted ceiling and two-story-high windows that flanked a fireplace and looked out on a deck with a hot tub.

“So how’s the week been?” Sam asked once they were seated.

Dean glanced at Cas. “Good. Really good. Even with everything hanging over our heads.”

“I’m glad. And you’re settling in okay, Cas?”

“I am. I’m grateful for Dean’s generosity. We’ve only known each other about two weeks, though from his books, I feel like it’s been much longer.”

“I read your third book, Cas,” Sam said. “ _The Clarion’s Prophecy_. Having a Gabriel, I was curious how you’d write about one.”

“Oh? And what did you think?”

“Well, I loved how you defined strength, that it was self-restraint and not physical strength. But to have an archangel casting off that self-restraint and using the world as his playground… I’d never thought about an angel wanting to immerse himself in hedonism and risking humanity as a result. It was a really interesting perspective.”

“There’s a Jewish spiritual discipline of examining, experiencing, cultivating, and strengthening the various qualities of the soul called Mussar, and that’s how they define _gever_ , strength,” Cas explained.

“So you studied that?” Sam asked. “Mussar?”

“I researched it, yes. And interviewed someone who had spent years studying it. I enjoy researching for my novels. It’s like taking independent study courses in college, without ever having to worry about exams or grades.”

“Dean does a lot of research for his novels too,” Sam said, turning to look at Dean. “All your road trips?”

“I was hoping maybe we could take a road trip for our crossover novel,” Cas admitted. “But we haven’t had a chance to talk about it with everything else going on.”

“Wait,” Dean said, “you want to go to Waterville?”

“Of course. Your settings are uncannily accurate. It’s sometimes hard to tell what is real and what’s fictional. I thought perhaps we could rent a cottage or find an Airbnb house and do our writing there.”

“Dude…” Dean shook his head in amazement. “You been reading my mind or something?”

“What’s this new book about?” Jess asked as she came in and sat in the other La-Z-Boy recliner.

“Well, we don’t have a title yet,” Dean said. “And just a loose plot.”

“Tell me anyway,” Jess said.

“Okay.” Dean nodded once and gathered his thoughts. “So, Tristan and Ross travel to Waterville, Maine, where numerous tales of medical miracles and unlikely survivors have them on the hunt for the source. And because nothing good happens for free, they’re convinced that there’s a cost—a big one.”

“In the news,” Cas added, “dozens of witnesses describe an EMT, or a med tech, or a tow truck driver, or a concerned citizen, someone who seemed to completely belong there, who had their hands on the one who miraculously survived. Someone whom no one recognizes, no one knows their name, no one knows where they came from or where they went, and their descriptions don’t match any known employees.”

“And Tristan and Ross start to wonder if this could be the work of an angel. And if so, why is he doing this?” Dean said.

Cas grinned. “What the readers don’t know yet—but we do—is that it’s the archangel Raphael, whose name means ‘healing of God,’ who is healing and rescuing people who would otherwise die in order to gain their pledge of loyalty for a war he plans to wage on earth.”

“What war?” Jess asked at the same time Sam asked, “Against whom?”

“Well,” Cas said, “we don’t have that yet. We’re working on it. We don’t have a title either. Sometimes the titles help direct the story, and sometimes the story leads to the title. I’m not sure which one this will be.”

“All of Cas’ books have some nod to the angel they’re about,” Dean added. “ _The Clarion’s Prophecy_ was a nod to Gabriel’s horn.”

“And _Heaven’s Wrath_ was about Michael as a supposed protector,” Cas said.

“Wait, Cas…” Dean chided himself for not having looked at all of Cas’ books yet. “Your first book was, in a way, about your brother?”

Cas nodded. “I was upset when I was writing. It was good to write him as the bad guy.”

“All of Dean’s books have the word ‘hunt’ in them,” Jess said. “So you need something with ‘hunt’ and also a reference to Raphael. Right?”

“Yes, I think that would work well,” Cas said.

“So, like, maybe _Hunt for a Healer_?”

Cas rubbed his hand over his mouth thoughtfully. “Except a healer could be human. They’re hunting something inhuman.”

“ _Hunt for a Healing Angel_?” Jess tried again.

Sam snapped his fingers. “ _Hunt for a Healing Halo_.”

“Alliterative,” Cas said, “but…I like it. What do you think, Dean?”

“Yeah.” Dean considered it more thoroughly and nodded. “Yeah. But you know what I like best about it?”

“What that?” Cas asked.

“You’re named after an angel. And I kind of feel like you’re healing me. Like us coming together was a hunt for a healing halo.”

Cas gave him that affectionate look again. “Then I say we have a title.”


	19. Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

 

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t fly,” Cas complained, staring out the passenger window.

“I _hate_ flying,” Dean said. “It was bad enough to have to do it last year. Had to take Dramamine and Benadryl and an anxiety medicine just to keep from freaking out. The publisher-who-shall-not-be-named would pay for the flight, but not a drive, and I couldn’t afford the trip otherwise.”

“I could keep you from freaking out.” Cas flexed his long fingers in somewhat suggestive motions. The sunlight reflected off the silver engagement ring on Cas’ left hand as he moved.

Glancing at his own matching ring, Dean felt a little choked up. “I’ll still take you up on that,” he managed to say.

“I’m sure you will. How many days until we get there?”

“Three,” Dean said, only a little frustrated that this was at least the fifth time he’d explained it. “We’ll stop in Laramie, Wyoming tonight. Then Wells, Nevada tomorrow night. And San Francisco on Thursday night. FAWNcon starts Friday morning, and we’ll be rested and ready to go.”

“Maybe. I’m an introvert, Dean. Road trips wear me out. Interacting with people. Hotels, restaurants, gas stations. I kind of enjoyed being reclusive and not doing appearances.”

“I still don’t buy that whole introvert thing. You did not come across like an introvert. Not even close.”

“I had a mission,” Cas explained. “Meet, and if possible, seduce Dean Winchester.”

“Dude, that is way creepier when you say it like that.”

Cas grinned. “I know.”

Dean sighed and smiled. “I forgot to ask, is Charlie going to be there? Last I saw on the attending authors webpage, she was a maybe.”

“She’ll be there. I told her I needed to thank her in person for everything she did: getting proof of Michael’s misuse of military email, mail fraud, blackmail. I had no idea he’d threatened so many people to get to me.”

“When’s the court martial date again?”

“June fourteenth. Flag day. Appropriate, no?”

“I’m just glad it’s over. No more looking over our shoulders. At least until the next thing comes along.”

“Which reminds me,” Cas said, “have you thought any more about our discussions on what to say if you see Crowley or Bela?”

“Yeah. Crowley can be snarky and sarcastic, but I don’t think he’d wish me any ill. He was annoyed for a while after the whole fallout with Bela. You know, how he wanted to find me another publisher. But I think he understands. He even said maybe he’d write his own book and self-publish it, things he’s learned about the publishing industry.”

“Oh, that’ll make him a lot of friends,” Cas observed.

“He’s a survivor. He’ll come out on top no matter what he does. And he wouldn’t be where he is if he wasn’t an expert at reading the writing on the wall.”

“And Bela?”

Dean considered his options again. “Stay professional and politely distant. She wasn’t a friend. I think there’s a greater chance she’ll ignore me. She couldn’t have been happy when their legal team reprimanded her for dragging them into a potential lawsuit. And I’m still amazed _Publishers Weekly_ wrote about it, then gave their readers a primer on book contracts and intellectual property.”

“You wound up doing a lot of good, Dean.”

“I guess. It’s been a stressful year. Makes me wonder what’s next.”

“We do have another book to write,” Cas said. “And we need a setting.”

“Why not the city by the bay? Just think: cable cars, Golden Gate bridge…”

“Earthquakes,” Cas countered. “Liquefaction.”

“Ghirardelli chocolate,” Dean added. “Sourdough bread.”

“Parking on hills. High prices. Fog.”

“Oh, come on, Cas. Nude beaches. Gay pride.”

“Why not Los Angeles? The city of angels for our next book?”

Dean snorted. “Talk about high prices and earthquakes. Not to mention air pollution and crowds and bumper-to-bumper traffic. No thank you.”

“Fine. San Francisco it is. But I’m picking the location for the third one.”

Laughing, Dean nodded. “You do that. You got an angel for the second book yet?”

“Well, I had a thought. You might not like it though.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I was thinking maybe another archangel. There’s this one, the angel of solitude and tears…”

“Well, that’s uplifting,” Dean said.

Cas shot him a glare. “He’s noted for observing humanity from a distance, never interfering in human affairs. But what if something happened that required his involvement? And humanity was threatened as a result?”

“I could work with that,” Dean said. “What’s this dude’s name?”

“In Hebrew, it’s Kaftziel. His name has to do with speed, moving quickly from one space-time to another. In Latin, it’s Cassiel.”

Dean glanced over to Cas. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“Absolutely no shit here, Dean.” Cas’ face was neutral.

“And my characters get to take him down?” Dean asked.

Cas gave him a half-smile. “Maybe. Or maybe after an eternity of being so distant, he’s a little socially awkward. Maybe your characters wind up helping him. Maybe he, uh…joins the team.”

“Two beast hunters and an angel, huh?” Dean considered it. “We might need a new series name.”

“We might,” Cas agreed.

Dean nodded thoughtfully as he slid a cassette into the Impala’s tape player and Kansas began singing about a wayward son. “Let’s think about it.”

 

 

 


	20. Notes and References—Not a Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter contains detailed notes, trivia, and canon references._

I thought I’d take a few moments to explain how this fic came to be. Initially, as a professional author, I loved the idea that Dean wrote urban fantasy based on the basic _Supernatural_ storyline. And it made sense, then, that Cas could write urban fantasy using the angels storyline. Crowley stated early on that his vessel was a literary agent from New York, so he got to be that again. This also gave me the opportunity to explore the self-publishing versus traditional (legacy) publishing realities a little more in-depth, in part because that’s my world, and in part because I know so many fanfic writers and readers who would someday like to be part of that world.

If you’d prefer not to geek out with me about books and publishing, and would rather see if you caught all the canon references, just scroll down to where it says TRIVIA AND REFERENCES.

Because this fic is an alternate universe, where the only supernatural is fictional, and because it lent itself so well to my purposes, I intentionally wrote Castiel as Cas with a bit of Misha thrown in. Dean also has a bit of Jensen thrown in. Considering that it’s my belief that no actor can play a part without a little bit of their own interpretation showing through—that it’s that very spark which gives a character depth beyond the script—I could argue that Cas would be fundamentally changed on some level were he to be played by anyone other than Misha. The same goes for Dean and Jensen.

Cas is a post-rules version of himself. He's become comfortable with choice and free will, and is maybe a little anti-rules. Dean is still in the “this is the way it’s done” (as canon Dean used to be with hunting), but starts to see the gray—not everything is black and white. He's also just starting to realize he’s in what we in the biz call publishing hell: no autonomy, no creative control, and you do what your publisher wants or else.

 

CONVENTIONS

While FAWNcon is not a real convention, it is based on several real conventions that I’ve attended as an author, where fans come to meet their favorite authors, authors themselves come to network with colleagues and meet their fans, and everyone leaves with a suitcase full of new books to read. Generally, a convention is either fan-centric (panels are for things fans want to know) or author-centric (education for fellow authors). I took some liberties with FAWNcon and made it a mix of both fan-centric (the urban fantasy panel) and author-centric (the marketing panel).

It is true that editors, agents, and publicists regularly attend these conventions, both to connect with current clients and to recruit new ones. It’s also true that most of the _real_ negotiations happen at the bar, and high-level authors frequently hang out there.

The promotion of an author as a _brand_ is all too real, and for big-name authors, that can spill over into how their private lives affect their brand—same as with celebrities in other forms of media. This can come up big-time at a con, when hundreds or thousands of people are watching what their favorite authors say and do. One drunken insult or blowing off a fan’s request can haunt them for months, if not years, and can absolutely have an effect on book sales. While authors both veteran and new will get social media coaching from their publicist (if they have one), I am not aware of any editors or publicists requiring advance approval of an author’s social media posts. That was all Bela.

 

BOOK CONTRACTS

Contract changes such as the ones Bela offered to Dean can happen mid-contract but are uncommon. It’s more likely to happen when negotiating a new contract for additional titles. Dean credited Crowley with getting him a five-book contract, which is unusual in the book industry. A two- or three-book contract at most is far more likely. As traditionally published authors are leaving legacy publishers for the control and financial reward of self-publishing (all true), it’s hurting the bottom line of traditional publishers, and they’re finding ways to make it up—mostly in the form of smaller advances, smaller print runs, higher book prices, and cuts in royalties.

All of the contractual issues that Sam talks about are common, boilerplate parts of a traditional book contract, including the right of first refusal. As far as the ownership of series title rights, that is sometimes written into a book contract as a way to keep an author from taking a more lucrative offer with another publisher for their series. I know at least three authors personally who had that happen to them, and could not take their series or characters anywhere else, even after the publisher dropped their series. One author had to resort to legal action to regain his rights. The other two started writing new series.

 

ROYALTIES: CAN CAS ACTUALLY EARN TWICE AS MUCH AS DEAN?

The royalty rates that Sam goes over with Dean—earning between ninety cents and two dollars and fifty cents per book at his old royalty rates—are absolutely true, based on current typical royalty percentages in the traditional publishing market and current book prices. The breakdown is this:

  
Hardcover price: $25  
Royalty rate for hardcover: 10%  
Royalty received per book: $2.50  
  
Paperback price: $12  
Royalty rate for paperback: 8%  
Royalty received per book: $0.90  
  
Ebook price: $9.99 (rounded up to $10)  
Royalty rate for ebook: 25%  
Royalty per ebook: $2.50  
  
Average royalty per book (paper or electronic) sold: $1.70

 

Cas’ royalty rates based on self-publishing are broken down this way:

Paperback price: $15  
Royalty rate for paperback: 45% (with standard industry discount of 55%)  
Royalty received per book: $6.75  
  
Ebook price: $4.99 (rounded up to $5)  
Royalty rate for ebook: 70%  
Royalty per ebook: $2.80

Average royalty per book (paper or electronic) sold: $4.78

 

Granted, Cas has to pay for editing, cover design, interior layout, possibly font licensing, ARCs, postage, other marketing, etc. (which Dean’s publisher pays for), but Cas would only need to sell 15,000 copies of his books per year to make $70K, whereas Dean has to sell 20,588 copies of his books just to make $35K per year. If Cas sold closer to 20,000 copies, he could easily afford book production costs _and_ still make twice what Dean does.

 

TRIVIA AND REFERENCES (in order of appearance)

     Chapter One

  1. Cas’ description of Dean’s book _Sea Hunt_ (the one with the leviathan) as “so much fun” is a reference to Leviathan!Cas’ line, “This is going to be so much fun,” in 7x01 (Meet the New Boss).
  2. Cas is staying with his brother in Washington state. Later we find out it’s two hours north of Seattle. Bellingham, WA, where Misha has a house for his family during filming months, is two hours north of Seattle.
  3. Dean’s reference to authors living in a charming cottage in Vermont is a nod to canon Dean’s line, “So what now? Move to Vermont, open up a charming B&B?” in 8x08 (Hunteri Heroici).
  4. Jim Butcher is the author of _The Dresden Files_ best-selling urban fantasy series.
  5. JLC Agency is comprised of Julian (named for Julian Richings, who played Death), Luke (named for Lucifer) and Crowley. Julian started the agency in the late 70s. In the late 70s, Julian Richings would have been in his early twenties. Luke was brought on in the mid-80s. Mark Pellegrino’s first acting credit on IMDB was in 1987. Crowley began at JLC “about ten years ago.” Canon Crowley was first mentioned in 3x05 (Bedtime Stories), which aired November 1, 2007.



     Chapter Two

  1. The protagonists of the Beast Hunters series, Tristan and Ross, are names for Jared’s and Jensen’s middle names, respectively.
  2. Crowley’s comment to Cas about keeping his popularity up on social media is a reference to canon Crowley’s line “Maybe you can get it up, but you can't keep it up,” in 8x07 (A Little Slice of Kevin).
  3. Gabriel’s obsession with the platypus is a reference to fan art made about the origin of the platypus. There is also a platypus in the TV show _Phineas and Ferb_ , from the Disney Channel.
  4. “You put me through law school.” Canon Sam earned a free ride to Stanford for pre-law (an undergraduate program). Law school, however, would have required student loans.



     Chapter Three

  1. Kevin’s comment about staying up late, reading manuscripts on his tablet until his eyes cross is a reference to canon Kevin staying up late, translating the demon tablet.
  2. Cas’ Twitter following of more than 2.5 million people is a reflection of Misha’s Twitter following.
  3. Brit’s Pub is a real British-themed pub in Minneapolis on Nicollet Mall. In fact, both Jared and Jensen have been there during MinnCon. The summer menu is exactly as described.
  4. Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout is a beer produced by Samuel Smith Old Brewery in the UK. Dean’s shortening of the name to Sam Smith is a reference to Samantha (Sam) Smith, who plays Mary Winchester. The taste of the oatmeal stout is, in fact, described as chocolate toffee. Dean’s mention of the pie his mom made further cements the reference to Samantha Smith/Mary Winchester.
  5. Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout is, in fact, served at the real London Underground pub in Ames, Iowa.
  6. Dean’s novel, _Hunt for a Giving Heart_ , is about a transplant recipient in Ames, IA, whose transplanted heart previously belonged to a serial killer, and who inherits the need to kill. This plot is based on 8x03 (Heartache), in which multiple suspects all received organ transplants from the same donor. Part of 8x03 takes place in Ames, IA.



     Chapter Four

  1. The sculptures mentioned in Cas and Dean’s walk along Nicollet Mall are real. You can view them through Google Maps if you aren’t lucky enough to live near Minneapolis.
  2. Cas’ comment that he worked odd jobs, “for what moved me, made me smile,” is a reference to a quotation from Misha Collins: “Do what moves you and makes you smile and the good will follow.”
  3. Dean’s first novel, _Hunt for an Avenger_ , is based on the plot for 1x01 (Pilot), in which a woman in white seeks vengeance against unfaithful husbands.
  4. Cas’ question about bees is a reference to 7x21 (Reading is Fundamental) and 7x23 (Survival of the Fittest) in which canon Cas is enamored with bees.



     Chapter Five

  1. The anatomical heart pencil toppers that Dean used as author swag for _Hunt for a Giving Heart_ really do exist.
  2. The debut author at the table Dean and Cas sit at in the authors’ breakfast is Krissy Chambers. The protagonist of her book is Maddie, a foster child by day and super hero by night. The actor who played Krissy is Madeline (Madi) McLaughlin. Madeline also played Evelyn Sharp / Artemis in _Arrow_. Krissy’s book cover is a reflection of several scenes that Artemis appeared in.
  3. In Krissy’s book, _Once Bitten, Twice Die_ , Maddie hunts down the killer(s) who murdered her parents, discovering that while it looked like a vampire kill, the victims were sedated first. This is a reference to 7x11 (Adventures in Babysitting), in which Sam and then Dean help canon Krissy find her hunter father, and track down vetalas, who sedate their victims before feeding on their blood several times.
  4. Codi, who fangirls over Cas, does so in a nearly-verbatim recital of a series of actual Facebook comments by one fan when Misha commented on her comment on his page.
  5. Cas’ comment to her about not dying was actually my comment on that exchange.



     Chapter Six

  1. Cas’ comment about Meg saying “Don’t just give them a workhorse; be a unicorn,” is a reference to 8x17 in which Meg refers to Cas as her unicorn.
  2. Marv Simon is a reference to Metatron. His view on authors versus publishers is taken from Metatron’s line at the end of 9x18 (Meta Fiction): “My job is to set up interesting characters and see where they lead me. […] How I get there doesn't matter as long as everybody plays their part.”



     Chapter Seven

  1. Dean’s comment about marketing (“I can’t do it, Cas. It’s too big.”) is a reference to canon Dean’s saying the same lines regarding the apocalypse in 4x16 (On the Head of a Pin).
  2. Chuck’s keynote speech parallels canon Chuck’s explanation for why he no longer interferes in humanity’s affairs, as seen in 11x21 (All in the Family).
  3. Chuck’s reference to a giant headache in writing (an impatient editor) is also a reference to the headaches he got when writing the Winchester Gospels in 4.18 (The Monster at the End of This Book).
  4. Chuck’s description of Dean’s series is my take on a description of _Supernatural_
  5. The pendant (amulet) Chuck presents to Dean is the Samulet that canon Sam gives canon Dean. I chose the Zoroastrian origin, as the god it depicts—Mitra/Mithras—was in Zoroastrianism a protector of the righteous, a reference to the Righteous Man.



     Chapter Eight

  1. The whirlpool suite with the fireplace is an actual hotel room available at the Holiday Inn Express in downtown Minneapolis, well within walking distance of Brit’s Pub. You will not find the convention rooms at the Holiday Inn Express, however. I used a conflation of two other hotels in the downtown area for that.
  2. The explanation of the surname Novak is accurate. It is often (but not always) a Jewish name.



     Chapter Ten

  1. The number Dean recites for the amount of Sam’s student loans is accurate as of this writing, based on tuition amounts on Stanford’s website and standard repayment terms.



     Chapter Eleven

  1. The Delta departure times and length of flights are accurate between MSP and MCI (Kansas City), as well as between MSP and SEA (Seattle-Tacoma).
  2. Cas’ description of how he is battling the storyline with Raphael is a reference to canon Cas’ war with Raphael.



     Chapter Twelve

  1. Cas’ choice of Waterville, Maine, as the setting for their crossover novel is a reference to 5x03 (Free to be You and Me), in which canon Dean and Cas trap Raphael in a ring of holy fire in an abandoned house in Waterville, Maine.
  2. Dean’s daydream about renting a house in Waterville while they write their novel, and questioning if there was a fishing dock nearby, is a reference to the fishing dock that appears in Dean’s dreams.



     Chapter Thirteen

  1. Driving distances and times in Cas’ drive from Bellingham to Lawrence are accurate.
  2. Celeste Middleton is Charlie Bradbury’s birth name.
  3. The Pacific Northwest Book Publishers Association is fictitious. There is, however, an actual Book Publishers Northwest, a Seattle-based regional chapter of the Independent Book Publishers Association. (I’m a member of IBPA.) There is also an actual Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association.
  4. Sam’s comment about Gabe’s vision working, adding, “Good to know,” is a reference to a short Facebook video Jared made in 2017, in which one of his sons was offscreen and demanding his attention.
  5. Gabe’s mention of Australia is a reference to the same fan art about Gabriel and the platypus.



     Chapter Fourteen

  1. Anna’s middle name (Julie) is a reference to Julie McNiven, who played Anna Milton.
  2. “Throw Crowley a bone” is a reference to Crowley having a hellhound.



     Chapter Fifteen

  1. Michael’s deadline to Dean is May 18, 2017 at 7:00 p.m. central time (Lawrence is in the central time zone). This was the date and time that 12x22 (Who We Are) first aired in the central time zone, with 12x23 (All Along the Watchtower) airing immediately after.
  2. Michael’s email to Dean ends with “say yes,” which is a reference to canon Michael’s attempts to get Dean to say yes to being Michael’s vessel.
  3. “At six-twenty, Cas called, wanting directions…” is a reference to 6x20 (The Man Who Would Be King), which opens with Cas asking God for direction.
  4. Similarly, Cas’ comments about remembering things, and that he’ll tell Dean everything is also a reference to 6x20.
  5. Cas’ comment that the hamburger makes him very happy is a reference to 5x14 (My Bloody Valentine) in which canon Cas succumbs to Famine’s effect on his vessel and eats hundreds of hamburgers.
  6. Cas’ comment about what Charlie taught him (just because you have star power and a huge marketing budget, it doesn't always equal sales) is paraphrasing a quotation from Felicia Day (who played Charlie), who said, “Just because you have star power and a huge marketing budget, you can see from some professional web series, it doesn't equal views.”
  7. Isaac Asimov wrote nine known stories that were never published and are now lost.



     Chapter Sixteen

  1. Sam and Jess’ house in Leawood, KS—both the exterior and interior—are based on an actual house listed for sale at the time of writing.
  2. The game Gabe wants to play is a reference to 5x08 (Changing Channels) during the Dr. Sexy section, in which canon Gabriel tells Sam and Dean to survive the next twenty-four hours and then they’ll talk.
  3. The definition of _gever_ and its relation to the name Gabriel is accurate. I’ve studied Mussar for several years.
  4. Kaftziel (קפציאל) is an angel mentioned in Jewish mystical literature. It means “God is my speed.” The root, קפץ, is from the verb “to jump,” or to move from one space-time to another quickly. One of the original seven archangels, Kaftziel was notable for watching humanity from afar, never interfering in human affairs.




End file.
